Fish and ship.
Amazing how much stuff can fit on one dinky little boat! There were people, nets, the day's catch, and even a lazily - licking cat with a reddish spot on its head and glorious whisker - brushes. Trout is a cat's best companion- though not for long and for reasons that is entirely gastronomical. Also, it's not exactly with the cat, but inside it.
The boy watched as the purse seine unfolded, and it looked way bigger than the whole boat beneath his feet. Even his dad looked like a giant compared to it. Though in real life, he definitely wasn't.
Despite how basic the trawler seemed, it brought plenty of joy: money to his dad and the whole crew, and fish to the tables of hungry consumers. That's what his dad always said- and to prove how weighty those words were, he'd bring his son along so he could learn the ropes.
Not that it was fun. More like the opposite. Fishing- no matter how modern, with fancy equipment and all- was still fishing. And the boy, leaning against the side, kept drooping his little nose down, fighting off creeping sleep like a champ. Not even the shouts of the crew or the sound of gear splashing into the lake could jolt him anymore. He was used to it.
Almost nothing could stop him from dozing off. Not even the snow that was falling thick and steady from the sky, like it was being churned out by some massive winter factory. Not even the pristine lake surface- so dazzling once- that now just felt kind of... He had once brought along a little mirror with a handle (swiped from Mom's vanity) to compare it with the lake. Turned out, the lake was like a million mirrors smooshed together- only cleaner, shinier, and without a handle.
The mirror ended up back on Mom's dresser, and his spirit of scientific discovery fizzled out before it really began. Everything returned to normal: the same mountains, the same water, the same fish, the sweaty gleam on Dad's forehead, the fur lining on the captain's hood, and… a hand sticking out of the water.
Wait- what?!
Sleep vanished like it had never existed. The boy realized he wasn't dreaming- he was wide awake. His eagle eyes saw what no one else would have noticed.
Something had broken the surface of the water. It looked exactly like a human hand, and it was getting bigger, because more of the arm was rising up too. He couldn't see details- it was too far away- but wow, what a sight! Then, just as suddenly, the hand vanished. The young explorer was left empty - handed (pun intended) and deeply disappointed.
He looked around. No one else had noticed. The crew was busy doing their thing.
- Dad... - he started to say, turning to his father, but the words stuck in his throat. The hand was back. And now it was way closer.
Another dive. Another appearance- closer still.
The child stood there, mesmerized, unable to look away. He completely forgot to call his father. Grown - ups might scare off his marvelous visitor. And since the hand was swimming right toward him, he was sure it wanted to connect with him and no one else.
Come on! Swim over here! Please!
And the marvelous visitor didn't hesitate (though how can a hand hear anything?) and reached the anchor rope. It grabbed on and gave it a playful tug, like a kid pulling a toy on a string. The way it handled the boat cracked the boy up, and he giggled. That seemed to delight the hand to no end. It even gave a thumbs - up before diving back underwater.
The weather was getting worse, and the boy was bummed he couldn't see what lay below the surface- what else was hiding down there with his new friend? Was there more to the hand, or was it just… a hand? Totally independent and free?
It looked cool: green, smooth like rubber, covered in some kind of lakeweed. If the boy didn't know that strömkarlen (tricky water spirits from old Nordic tales) were supposed to be wicked and tricky water spirits, he'd totally believe that one of them was waving hello right now. But this one seemed peaceful- even playful.
As if to confirm the boy's observations, the lake visitor resurfaced- this time holding a fistful of colorful little stones from the bottom. Squinting through snowflakes that clung stubbornly to his lashes, the kid leaned over the edge of the boat, reaching out to grab at least one of the gifts. Or, ideally, all of them.
His heart pounded as he imagined showing them off later to his family and friends, bragging about who exactly had given him those treasures. That imaginary story- somewhere between a confession and a boast- fueled his excitement even more than the gems themselves.
Stop!
The boy jerked back, startled, and stumbled away from the edge. A heavy hand clamped down on his collar and yanked him close. His dad's face loomed in front of his, shouting:
Do you even realize what you were doing?! You could've fallen in! Stop screwing around and stay next to me. Sorry, Daddy… - the boy mumbled, properly ashamed, brushing snow off his jacket and trying to look innocent. Thought so. - His dad gave a satisfied - The shift's almost over anyway. We'll be home soon.
The boat did, indeed, start moving, heading back to shore along its usual route, leaving the fishing spot behind. The boy stared at his empty hands, fat tears dropping onto them- tears that, unfortunately, didn't turn into the beautiful little stones he'd nearly had. He hadn't managed to grab a single one.
And he wouldn't get another chance today. Maybe tomorrow?
The water rippled again, and out came that long arm ending in the now - familiar hand. It spread its fingers into a wave- a clear goodbye. When it didn't get a response, it disappeared into the depths with a sad little plop, leaving only ripples behind.
Board and Figures.
There's a football field. A basketball court too. Both are full of people playing. Standing off to the side, though, is a chessboard, where artificial pieces made of various materials- most often fine wood- duel in silence. And somewhere in between those two types of play zones sits, of course: the Polygon.
That's what he called it. He really liked the sound of that word, especially after realizing it wasn't just a sacred space he'd created to decompress his overworked mind. He used to just glance at it with a tired gaze and feel relieved- these papier - mâché models were silent, emotionless, and wouldn't cause the kind of mess the originals did. But later, he had to accept a certain truth:
By looking at them, he could think. Sometimes even predict how their real - life counterparts might act.
And that made things so much easier!
The figures stopped being mere models and became his actual army in miniature. None of them were more important than the others. Each carried its own meaning, sparked interesting thoughts- or at least gave him the comforting satisfaction of his own cleverness.
And now, he poured himself a shot of - screwdriver - vodka and orange juice, at a 2:1 ratio- grimaced, and knocked it back. Then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gently stroked the head of a female figurine. Her long chestnut hair was detailed to perfection, cascading halfway down her back. She was holding a tiny baby she had just given birth to- swaddled and nestled in loving, maternal arms.
The long - awaited birth of a child.
How touching, for those who called themselves loving parents- and how important to him personally, as the latest addition to his little army. Every one of them was his own child, even if he hadn't conceived them or brought them into the world.
But he made sure they lived their best lives, all under his gracious, watchful eye. This wasn't a game of playing God. It was his right- earned through hard work and by cutting certain someone's out of his former life.
The armchair creaked in protest as his joints did the same, stretching contentedly across the satin upholstery and extending his calloused feet. Soon he'd soak them in a basin of hot foamy water, and then he'd feel peak bliss. But first- another drink, and a slice of papaya. He was in the mood for something exotic today.
On the dresser stood a cuckoo, long since torn from a clock- it used to interrupt his thoughts with its obnoxious appearances. He threw a tightly crumpled paper ball at it and grinned when he nailed it right in the beak. In the fireplace, another log was burning down. The chunk looked ragged and sad, but he had no energy left to get up and adjust it.
But that energy appeared out of nowhere the moment there was a knock at the door. His whole body tensed like it used to in his army days.
The knock was quiet- almost gentle. Just two knuckles. But every soft rap echoed in his ears like church bells… or like the sound of a stick tapping along floorboards as he once searched for buried treasure.
How did this happen?! Why today? Why did that demon come here?!
All his former confidence and self - satisfaction vanished. His beloved armchair stood abandoned, and beyond it, he found himself alone- face to face with coming doom.
His face lengthened, visibly thinned, as if stress itself was the best fitness trainer. Forgetting his aching legs, the man rose and tried to walk- not dance- as his knees trembled beneath him. He headed for the door. No creaky childhood floorboards here- the flooring was vinyl tile, pretending to be wood. But he could hear every single step.
Kneeling down, the owner of the study pressed his temple to the door, as if hoping the demon might just… go away. And for a moment, it almost seemed like it had- until, right beside his ear, came a knock.
Three taps. Soft and deliberate. But each one threatened to cause a stroke and a heart attack all at once.
He banged his forehead against the door and pleaded:
Why?! Do you come here just to torment me?!
Something kicked the door. It felt like the hinges were about to give out. He dropped to all fours, covered his head with his hands, and whimpered quietly as cheerful whistling came from the other side.
Positivity, it seems, sometimes shows up in the most unexpected forms.