Creative Writing: The Beach

A cloudless starry night from the view of a fishing boat anchored in the middle of a small lake. The moon reflects back off the waters glass like cover occasionally wrinkling with the silent night’s breezes. The buzz of the crickets and night insects from the shoreline dull the frog’s croaks in the dark summer’s air. Two older men sit back and watch light up bobbers drifting in the near distance as fish hungrily pop bugs off the water’s smooth surface from all around. The man in the driver’s seat of the boat looks like he worked in the sun most of his life. Leathered face with wrinkles leading from the corner of his eyes to his reddened cheeks. Clean gold-capped teeth give rise to the exhale of a clenched cigarette. “Fucking mayflies.”

In a tip toeing tiny dancer manner – one which he’d never let his wife see – he cradles up the cork tipped rod preparing to set the hook. Ed reaches his upper lip out like a camel, in an attempt to feel for his beer can as he watches in focus on Jerry’s fishing prowess. Jerry slowly reels in the slack in the line as he tosses a quick look to Ed. The line begins to slowly elevate and stand out of the water leaving a small trail of droplets falling from it as the amount of distance between Jerry and whatever is on the other end shortens. With a flick of his wrists, Jerry sets the hook and wildly reels in the fish. The reel begins to click as the opposing force draws out line. Jerry holds the rod straight up and down with the closest end buried in his half exposed belly. “This thing feels good size.” Jerry states as he lowers the rod parallel to the lake and then up

beast battle before him. The clicking of the drag on the reel softens the BUZZING radio interference as it begins to increase.

“Get the net ready.”

As Ed stands up to grab the net, a loud thunderous crackle booms out from the sky above. The sound now resonates across the empty and quiet open lake like a gunshot’s echo in a canyon. Two orange balls of fire flare up in the dark sky. Right behind them are two faint blinking lights. At a more focused glance, the blinking lights are from jets in pursuits of something on fire. The rapid rate of speed in which they are traveling now places them almost directly above the anglers.

“What the hell is that?” Ed shouts as he takes another sip off his beer.

With fish still tugging at the rod, Jerry watches as small pieces of debris fall to the lake like snowflakes in a silent wind. The inertia from the above passing mass creates a brief eerie breeze in the air that gently drifts the boat from its resting place.

“That’s a plane on fire!” Ed yells.

“Dear god.” Jerry exhales. “That thing is going down.”

The flaming aircraft was only a few hundred feet above the tree line by the time it was at the end of the