OLWG #77- The Urban Fisherman

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. The flash fiction, below, was written for practice. Practice makes perfect.

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

Dabney started when he heard the ‘text message’ notification from his phone. Must be Porsche, he thought, and it was.

“Working late on the Coleman case,” she had texted, “Don’t wait up. Luv u.”

He glanced up at the clock and noted the time. He straightened his desk and got ready to tell Marilyn that he was calling it a day, but Marilyn had already gone. Dabney recalled her sticking her head in the door and asking if he had needed anything before she went home. He’d been distracted and simply waved. She was a wonderful administrator and if anything had required doing, he was certain that she had already done it.

Dabney took the lift to the ground floor and turned on Water Street, heading to the Metro, two blocks down. On the way, he spotted an old man with a fishing pole. The line was dangling into the water that was running along the street-side. Dabney paused to watch this urban fisherman; he was attired in dungarees and a long-sleeved work shirt, clean but worn. His shoes were old, yet polished. He was standing outside a pub, named The Goat and Vasectomy.

Dab considered his options. He thought the man appeared down on his luck. Porsche had left him to his own devices for dinner and pub food sounded as good as anything to him; besides he deserved a drink.

“Excuse me, sir,” Dabney addressed the old man, who turned towards him and pointed at his own chest to say, who, me?

“Yes,” he continued, “My name is Dabney. I work up the street and, well, I find myself, by myself tonight and I’m hungry. I thought I’d pop into this pub for a quick bite. I could use some conversation. Would you fancy joining me? My treat.” Dabney squared his shoulders and shot his cuffs as he waited for a response.

The old man studied him and then shrugged his shoulders, “Sure, why not? Thanks.” He reeled in his line and lifted the pole before he followed Dabney into the bar. There was a moment of some confusion, which of them should cross the threshold first, but they sorted it out.

Inside the two men took a table by the window and each ordered a whisky. They sized one another up. Dabney broke the silence when he pointed to the fishing pole, “Any luck today?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah a little.” the old man answered. They dropped back into an awkward silence.

“How many have you caught?” Dabney continued, hoping to spur the conversation.

“You’re the eighth.”

This week’s prompts are:

at the bottom of the off ramp
is that my pencil case?
broken

Go ahead and dive in, set your imagination free!
Write something
Ready, Set, Go – you have 25 minutes, but if that is not possible, take as long as you need.

Have fun