He took the wriggling bait and skewered it onto the hook. With a practiced sweep of the arm and flick of the wrist, he threw his line out into the river and then took up his usual seat perched on the end of the pier.
When he had first started fishing from this pier there had been a group of them every Sunday, lined up along the edge, sharing beer and jokes, chatting about the girls at school.
Over the years their numbers had steadily fallen. First those that left for college or university. Then those that moved away for work. Then those that had family commitments and showed up only occasionally. Then those that had passed away. The pier itself started to crumble. No one used it for their boats anymore.
Now it was only him that faithfully came, waiting patiently to feel tension on the line. It felt like home in an ever-changing world.
The boy shuffled next to him. ‘Will we catch anything today, Granddad?’
‘Maybe, my boy,’ he smiled. ‘Maybe.’
Written as part of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The challenge is to write a flash fiction story, in around 150 words based on the weekly photo prompt. For more information visit HERE.
To read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.
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