The old fisherman, decked out in the traditional brown anorak and boots, walked across an empty road. It was near midnight, and he knew the wife was going to be angry. “John!” she’d shout, “Do you know what time it is? You said you’d get in at dusk, at the latest! You know what you’ve been doing to me? I’ve been worried sick! Blah blah blah!”
As a result, the fisherman was walking slowly. He was in no hurry to be shouted at. He carried a lobster pot under his arm, filled with various sea creatures that he’d managed to drag from their deep ocean home. The moon was high above him, providing the only light in this lonely place. Or so he thought.
As John looked along the road, he saw two lights, far off in the distance and blurred by fog. He couldn’t make out what they were, but they were bright, and rapidly approaching.
John ran off down the road, nearly losing his catch as he did. But he didn’t run fast enough. Behind him there was a loud roar, like a lion. He turned, and was faced by a creation more menacing than he’d ever seen.
* * * * *
“Watch out!” Sarah shouted at her husband. “You’re going to hit that fisherman!”
“What? What fisherman?”
“Are you fucking blind, that one crossing the road! Watch out!”
Much to Sarah’s amazement, it appeared that David couldn’t see that which was so clear to her. Well, there was nothing new there. David drove the car right into the fisherman, forcing Sarah to close her eyes and brace for impact.
But nothing happened. She felt no jolt across the bonnet. She heard no screams of agony. All that happened was that the car kept driving. “Oh come on,” said David, “I don’t drive that badly. Take your hands away from your face.”
“But…” She turned around to look out of the back window. She saw no body lying in the road, and in fact, she saw nothing. The fisherman had disappeared into the fog.
Shane Rynhart 