wildcat

Lobsters dive-bombed. Old Roger Fiddle, standing wretched in his little red vest, banged at Biddy Goode's door while heaps of fish and seawater fell from the heavens—muck working its way into his boots to lick at arthritic toes. Green-slicked mud everywhere. "Open the bloody door, woman!" Roger scraped mossy fingernails over grotty wood. Trout, herring, whole schools of salmon. Fat sharks. Salt water dribbled down into the corners of his mouth—an ocean's tears. Fat lot of good that did anyone. "Biddy Goode!" The woman was impossible at the best of times, still mad at him for all those little arguments, what happened that one time when they were much younger and firmer. He pounded louder. Now was not the time for her to drag out old disagreements. An octopus heaved and thrashed drunkenly on the front walkway while jellyfish landed on top of it in droves. A hammerhead shark hit the station wagon parked across the street.

The door slipped inward with Biddy Goode's fingers wrapped along its edge, and then her eye and ear appeared within the darkened hallway. "Roger—" She yelped as he pushed her in, then shut the door behind them. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" She smelled of radishes, almost pleasant after the fish market clinging to the outside world. She turned to her hand, briefly, then slapped him across the face like an afterthought. So it was going to be like that, was it?

Roger pried open the blue lace curtain drawn across the door's inset window. "We're having one of them biblical plagues," he said, and jabbed at the glass. "Or flood's a-coming. My knee's been acting up something fierce." Crabs exploded against cobbles. "Might be the end of the world." Water arced against the pane and Biddy Goode dug her fingers into his arm. Thump-thump-thump, fish hitting the roof. Thump-thump-thump.

"Nonsense. The world hasn't ended since I was a very little girl." And the girl! To have been there. Little blonde ringlets, appled cheeks, scraped knees. Climbing all over her mother. The smell of fine herbs drifted by to mix with the radishes. They stepped, side-by-side, into the sitting room. Biddy Goode had been having tea—a little china cup beside a little china teapot. Not expecting company, she'd foregone the doilies. "You've got a starfish tangled in your hair." She patted at his grey hair, pulling and teasing until the offender came loose.

"You don't think it's the flood?"

Biddy Goode waddled over to the teapot and set the starfish done, clapping her hands together and not once looking up at the constant noise of things hitting the roof. The noise was happening more loudly, and much quicker. Spooshes and splashes rose up from outside. "You really are an idiot, Roger. Come here—some jasmine tea will calm you down. I swear, you've been in the most ridiculous state since Martha..." She closed her mouth and poured tea, pressing the cup into his hands afterward.

"Don't you Martha me," he sneered. This had nothing to do with Martha, he wanted to say. The starfish sprawled beside the teapot and he poked at it with the silver sugar tongs laid out. Water spilled in bursts down the chimney. "It doesn't just rain an ocean's contents, woman. Fish don't fall. This is the end of the—"

And then the roof collapsed.

© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.

I'm not sure I could answer correctly with what this is, beyond the first scene of something new I'm working on. I already have the second scene on the go and this feels like it might be a longer piece. Think of this as a prologue.