Imitation Hemingway (not to be confused with Faux Falkner)

[benchilada]

Originally started by Harry's Bar and Grill, the old Hemingway hangout, it is now Hemispheres Magazine that hosts the annual Imitation Hemingway contest. I wrote this piece somewhere between ten and fifteen years ago. I've turned it into a finished product, and will be submitting it this year.

 

            It was the afternoon, and the sun was still high, and the air was hot, but we did not mind. We drank our wine. It was a good wine, but not great.

            “Compañero, does the wine suit you?” asked Juan Carlos.

            I said that it did, and that it was a good wine for the fishing.

            “You are too kind. It is not a good wine, but you are right, it suits the fishing, which is also not good.”

            We laughed together and drank more of the fishing wine. We had cheese with us, and yesterday’s bread. The cheese was an asiago, hard and chewy as it should be. The line tugged in my hand and cut deep into my palm. I dropped my cheese and watched it sink, quickly, into the water.

            “You have a good one, commandante,”

            “Do not call me commandante.”

            “But you are one.”

            “I was one.”

            “Ah, I see. The armies are behind you, so, too, is the commandante I once knew.”

            He was a good compañero, and I have always enjoyed being with him. The fish was big, but not bigger than our friendship. I fought the line, and the line fought back, but neither of us won.

            “Perhaps I can help…”

            He really was a good compañero, and as he brought up our rucksack, he smiled, and I smiled, and we were happy.

           He lifted my Kalashnikov from the bag, and I gave him the line. I steadied myself and brought the gun to my shoulder. It was well-oiled, so it fired well, and it hit, but the fish did not mind.

            “He is a fighter, compañero, but he will find that we fight, too.”

            I smiled and reached again into my rucksack. It was filthy with dirt, and blood, and sweat, and so it stank of war and humanity. I found my grenade. It was a true grenade, and it found its mark, but the fish only jumped with the blow, and I smiled again.

            I told Juan Carlos that I was happy and tight, and he said the same.

            I felt sorry for the fish. I was taking him from his home and into my home, where I would eat him, and he would be gone. It took me a moment to aim the Stinger missile, and I apologized as I fired.

            “Forgive me, fish, but we are sporting, and our sport is fishing, and we must have you.”

            We guessed that he had been about nine-and-a-half feet. We drank the last seven bottles of our wine on the way to shore, and we were proud of our work. We showed the biggest piece we had recovered—three inches—to our friends, and they were also proud.

            “We are sure it was a grand fish, really we are. Are you going out again to-morrow?”

            I told them that we were, and that we would return with a bigger piece. It rained the next day, though, and we did not go out.

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benjamin
Current Music: "A Thousand Words" - Northern State
Last Book I Read a Page of: The Boy Who Couldn't Stop Washing: The Experience and Treatment of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder - Dr. Judith L. Rapoport
Last Movie: The Colour of Truth (HK, Cop/Crime, 2003?)