NEW STORY: The Skeem

Catching, not fishing will feed your family. Casting and casting with no scaly fruit on the end of your pole, that’s fishing.

Was it the season? Bad luck? Poor hardware or the shitty boat? All Pimo knew was that his basket, at the end of the day contained no more than a few mussels pried from the dock, a starfish or two for his daughters amusement and maybe something that had gone belly up, mostly still intact, not putrid enough to not eat.

Day in and day out this was the bounty Pimo could muster – certainly not enough to feed the 3 hungry mouths awaiting his return each and every time he returned home, the sun all but gone from its daily home above them. If it weren’t for the garden that gifted enough tubers, they’d been cut in half, their family, before last winter.

They’d say they were hungry, because the truth of starvation was obvious enough. No need to hear it.

It’s not as if the other families of Komdaur were much better off – most others didn’t even have the taters.

A white fish, too small and maybe just too foul, 3 potatoes (spiced with grass and quakie bark) and what they hoped was a clump of kelp that could actually stick to their bones. A better than average meal – at least enough to make it to sunlight before the waking pangs took their first stab.

Time to go. Time to start the day that would turn out to be much, much different than those before it.

Rowing the rickety, half patched boat, to yet another “hopefully filled with SOME good” spot Pimo decided it was time for rest, thanks to the lack of food converted to energy. And so he rested. Rested long enough and deep enough to to experience the light storm that had positioned him in a bay of which he was not previously aware of.

He would’ve been a bit more concerned, a bit more worried about this new location if it weren’t for the glory, the awe inspiring sight that laid before hime.

Standing on the shore, dressed all black stood a man no larger and no older but certain more fortunate stood casting line after fruitful line. Each cast glimmered at the end with a fish as large as those in Pimo’s childhood.

Rubbing his eyes, filled with disbelief, he watched this man pull no more than 10 large fish in the span of 10 minutes.

Cast, fish. Cast, fish.

Catching eyes, the shore fishing messiah waved in Pimo – as if he wished to speak.

Upon the shore Pimo treated the man as if he were a God – Poseidon himself.

“Mister, that’s the most fish I’ve seen in the last 5 years, maybe more.”

“My family, they could eat off your daily catch for weeks. For months.”

Still yet to address the man named Pimo, he turned, revealing a hand void of fingers and an eye as cloudy as a sky holding a winter storm.

“We’re starving – my wife, my daughters. How are you doing it?”

Turning and speaking in a voice so faint it was nearly drowned by the water lapping against the rocks, the man said:

The sun, the sky, the water they are one and speak to each other through my lure – The Skeem.

“You mean to tell me this lure, this Skeem is what attracts these fish.”

He nodded, yet to express anything but the ice that oozed from his glare.

“I must have this lure, the Skeem. Whatever can I do to use it? If only for awhile.”

You do not want it. I assure you, fisherman.

His eye cloud seemed to now bleed with red, with blood.

You can not be responsible for the power.

“Please sir! We are hungry – near starvation!”

This is not for you – you do not understand.

“1 week. That is all I need for it to provide for months. Please sir, save me – save my family.”

I will give you these fish, this catch of 10 if you are to leave me be and return to your village.

“That is a generous offer but it is the lure I am interested in. 1 week. Tis all I need. Those ten will be 50 if not more. I beg of your sir – one week and I will return it to you.

The man relented, both eyes now the color of a rising sun … You are persistent fisherman and for that I will allow your usage of The Skeem for not a week but a stretch of 4 days and only if you are able to follow these rules.

Beside himself and the prospect of full, thriving bellies Pimo accepted with a vibrant “YES, ANYTHING!” before the rules were laid.

You are brave and dedicated to your family, I certainly hope that following directions is also a characteristic you possess, fisherman.

Hands out, ready for the lure, stood Pimo and the man spoke again:

You may catch as many fish as you might, but they are not to be consumed by anyone other than YOUR family of four.

Pimo nods, his anticipation heightening.

Also you may only use The Skeem under the cast of the sun. The night time is not the time for the Skeem.

“No one fishes at night, not in these parts”

And finally, you may never allow anyone to see you use this lure. Never see The Skeem.

His eyes now transformed again, this time with murky streaks the color of milk swimming across from one side to the next. This went unnoticed, again, due to Pimo’s mounting excitement.

Do you agree to these terms, this 4 day lease that begins now and ends 4 days from this moment?

“How will I find you?”

You’ll be found by me, the man said rubbing the area that used to house his fingers.

“I agree, now please and thank you but may I have the lure?”

Removing it from the line the man, whose eyes were now black (no pupil, no retna – just black) handed over The Skeem – nothing more than a smooth ball, a tiny orb – one that changed the colors (including the swimming milk) he would’ve seen in the mans eyes if not for the excitement of saving his family.

“There are no hooks, no barb.”

None are needed.

As Pimo looked once again and back at the man – there was no man – just the lapping of the water.

///

Tired and enthused but again sleepy, a tad slumbery, Pimo laid on the bank and when he awoke, his boat was at his dock, his fist clenching what he know knew as The Skeem.

Well rested and possessing a vigor not seen since his youth, Pimo quickly attached The Skeem to then end of this line and cast, straight from the dock, into the barren waters that had tortured him, his family, his village for what had seemed a life time.

The Skeem hits water, his pole bowing in a high arch immediately. After a quick reel Pimo was face to face with a fish large enough to feed his family for the next 3 nights.

Curious and greedy he cast again and again with the same bountiful results.

Returning home too proud, too exicted, Pimo dropped 5 large, delicious fish on the table without a word.

Astonished, startled and without question his wife wept as she began prepapring what was the largest feast their family could have ever imagined.

That night Pimo slept. He slept well and dreamed only of the Skeem – and at the crack of dawn, the night was gone, he was back at it.

The second day The Skeem produced enough fish that Pimo and family could eat and preserve for the winter, if not longer.

The other fishermen, first dumbfounded quickly turned jealous, quickly turned foul.

Give us your secret were the depands.

I can not Pimo repeated time and time again. Eventually returning home to feast once more.

Day 3 Pimo found it more difficult to hide from the otheres – but they were waiting for him when he returned.

Give us a share, we hunger as well!

I can not – I am sorry but I can not.

They’re voices more demanding, their patience – fueled by hunger – had grown thin.

Again a feast for Pimo and family, their stockpile growing.

The fourth day, chocked full of more fish, was more peaceful. The villagers who had been awaiting him the previous days were nowhere to be seen. He enjoyed a quiet walk home, smiling, lugging the days catch.

The smile faded quickly at the sight of what seemed to be the entire village mobbed around his house.

His daughters, they screamed.

GIVE US THE FISH the mob demanded.

I can not. Please, leave my family and I alone.

Feed us or we will kill your family, stated the leader, a man named Benduk – Pimo’s friend since birth.

But not ‘fore we rape ‘em chimed someone from the heart of the mob – as if speaking this atrocity for all of them.

Screams again – Pimo hoped his family had not heard the man.

I can not he persisted. For there is not enough fish to feed you all – the entire village. Please, he pleaded, my family.

Catch more then, you fool.

I can not. Besides, the sun it is setting.

Lucky for you the moon shines bright tonight, Benduk point to the sky.

I can not … It’s not permitted.

His family, tears streaming did not know why he had sacrificed them – like this, for fish.

The youngest one – she’s first … the mob spoke together.

Ripped fromt eh grips of her mother the mob began to disrobe the girl of no more than 7.

If it were possible, the screams would’ve grown louder but as they stood, were as loud as the little girl could belt. The dug into Pimo’s heart.

To save his family he would violate not one but all the rules the man had laid before him and his usage of The Skeem.

As the screams, the tears continued Pimo relented with a shout loud enough to stop the crowd – nary a hair harmed on his daughter.

I will feed you. I will feed all of you the largest feast your stomachs can imagine.

The very recently murderous mob cheered and they all made their way to the water, led by the light of the moon.

Standing by the shore, his family and the villagers behind him Pimo attached The Skeem – now blacker than black mating with black – to his pole and cast into the moon reflective water.

The Skeem sank below the surface as everyone including Pimo waited with bated breath.

First the water turned color – that of a pale orange, then pink.

Next the surface popped one bubble then another before breaking into a full blown boil.

Jaws dropped from all those who were witness – not a whisper was spoken as the water rose from the floor of the bay revealing all that lived beneath – spitting out a heavy rainfall of every fish imaginable.

The celebration was deafening, smiles, dancing and fires to cook the miracle catch!

All was right in the world, each person aside from Pimo and his family the happiest they may have ever been.

Pimo waited, not knowing, nor prepared for the events that followed.

They’d seen The Skeem, and under the shine of the moon to boot – what happened when they dined?

Fish off the fire now lived on the plates of the wide eyed villagers.

As if in unison they dug in – some with large bites, others with small.

In unison their faces grew with massive satisfaction.

Lasting but a few moments, all was right before again, in unison the first gush of blood exploded from their ears. No pain, just blood – followed by more flowing from their mouths.

Shocked faces, bewildered looks streaked with red lasted but awhile as each face slowly felt its skin slip from the skull it was normally stretched across.

Now the screams arrived and they certainly didn’t stop as each and every villager who had tasted the fish felt their own body and watched those of the others turn inside out – shortly thereafter their eyes dropped like stones to the ground.

Shocked Pimo rushed for his family. Clutching them he turned his attention to the horror in time to see each and every set of the villager’s eyes roll from where they landed, rapidly across the beach, piling at waters edge. The circled, enclosed around the smooth orb that had returned to the sand. Glowing red The Skeem liquefied each jelly filled ball and absorbed each drop – slowly taking on the color of the milk streaks Pimo failed to witness in the man’s eyes some 4 nights ago.

The same man that then emerged from the treeline, at that very moment.

“I’m SO SORRY,” Pimo cried with all his might.

No. Not yet you aren’t.

The man held his fingered hand to the sky, giving a brief command that activated The Skeem, as it took course to return to him.

Skeem in his good hand, the man’s once fingerless stub took the shape of a single, long, glistening blade – one that he used to punch holes (holes that made the sound you would imagine would come from stabbing a fresh watermelon, Pimo thought later), one after the other, where their eyes had formerly lived. First his wife, then his daughters.

Pimo cried with pain, with grief as the bodies of his family folded to the ground.

Now, fisherman, you are sorry.

Dusty little bitch, ain't she?

Just went back and looked at a handful of previous blog posts and realized that at least two of them were based shared the following theme: "oh hey, i haven't been blogging for awhile, let's get this thing started, again, and start writing! Yeah! Go Team!".

Yes, the last post on this blog was a good 5 months ago. Yes, a far amount of shit has transpired in both my life and the world since then. Should I recap? Discuss news worthy instances that have happened in that time span? No. Hellll, no.

I do believe it's important, however, to point out that Tom Brady now wears a hat (presumably just the beginning of this wardrobe) displaying his very own logo, the "TB" brand. Is this a man, an individual that NEEDS to capitalize on his cool, his essence, his pure and simple being?

Super Bowl rings, MVP award, Supermodel wife, child on the way, child with a prettier more than talented former girlfriend and an apparent charisma that despite all of these facts ... if he weren't a Patriot, he'd be likable.



Do I need to sport TB gear? No, my money is not the target. Does anyone need to sport TB gear? Those looking to draw a connection to their favorite Pat? Yes, send buckets n' buckets of these to NE, build that brand, continue placing brick after brick in the structure(s) that will stand for the Brady Legacy.

The money is nice, but the official construction of building a name that will last is g-g-g-old.

Get after it, Tom Brady.