The Docks

    “Wernofski, that’s thirty minutes for lunch,” the supervisor’s voice bellowed from somewhere across the damp warehouse. Vernon dropped the grouper back onto the chopping block, stepping carefully over a pile of entrails that had tumbled from the conveyor belt onto the blood-slick floor.
    After scrubbing from wrist to elbow in the single sink, Vernon plucked his lunchbox from the ancient refrigerator and headed to the only place he could think of eating: outside, away from the constant stench of saltwater death.
    The concept of eating lunch was strange at two in the morning. Vernon just wasn’t used to overnights yet. He attributed a lack of appetite to being unseasoned in the noble work of fish gutting. Every night he imagined fleeing the oppressing warehouse, only to remind himself that jobs were hard to come by, and that his son needed new clothes for school.
    Vernon sat on a lonely bench overlooking the deserted wharf, watching the bay reflect moonlight like an oil spill. His ham sandwich tasted like fish, as did the bag of stale pretzels. He placed the half-eaten meal aside and rubbed his tired eyes. Even his hands stank of fish, no matter how long or hard he scrubbed.
    A sound interrupted the quiet lapping of waves. A gurgle, like a child blowing bubbles in chocolate milk. It grew louder, emitting from the dock closest to him. Vern’s chest tightened. Was someone drowning?   
    He ran to the wooden pier, calling out in the hope of hearing a response. He heard splashes instead.
    “Hello?” It was futile. Vernon couldn’t swim to save his own life, much less someone else’s. There was another gurgle and a splash. He flopped onto his belly, staring unblinkingly into the water, praying that the person would come up again and he could pull them to safety.
    Instead, he caught a flash of light from below. Two orbs that resembled flickering eyes stared back at him under the darkened water. He forced his eyes to focus, and he began to see the outline of a child.
    The cold eyes watching him belonged to a pale, wide face. His mother used to call it a “moon face,” round and friendly. Only this one was frowning. Tendrils of dark hair floated about the face, missing in patches.
    It surged forward, breaking the surface without a sound. Vernon stared in wonder at the creature, at two black eyes studying him right back. The skin was a translucent gray; he could make out tiny, throbbing blue veins and slick temples. What he previously thought was hair looked more like seaweed or vines, thick and twisted, roped with shells and small stones.
  The creature was no bigger than a child, and not distinguishably one sex or the other. It gazed at him curiously as it bobbed along, hands raised before it like an otter holding a conch. In its grasp was a half-eaten fish, eyes bulging and gills still pulsing as if trying to suck life from the cool night air. The thing glanced down at the now unappealing fish, then back up at Vernon, before dropping its neglected supper with a splash.
    The creature smiled, then, revealing several rows of small pointed teeth, much like a grouper. Before he had a chance to smile back, the thing reached up, dug its hooked hands into soft skin, and dragged Vernon Wernofski down into the depths below the docks like a giant fish dinner.   


Word Count: 578