‘The Fish’ – A Highly Commended Entry In Our Short Story Competition

Published on: 29 Nov, 2025
Updated on: 30 Nov, 2025

Readers may have noticed that the Guildford Dragon’s pages have been opened up to talented short story writers in recent months. We are planning to continue down that road.

Today we are delighted to publish one of the “Highly Commended” entries in our recent short story competition, run in conjunction with Guildford’s independent bookshop, Paper Moon.

Chris Middlehurst’s story is about two brothers embarking on an early morning fishing trip.

The Fish

By Chris Middlehurst

Their shadows moved over the ground opposite the lake: the younger one in front lean and wiry, the older one behind, slouched and still half-asleep. The younger one stopped. ‘Here?’

‘Nah.’

‘Further on?’

‘Yeah.’

Feet cushioned by wet grass, the older one dragging his feet, while the younger one, nimble and svelte, almost skipping with giddy excitement. He stopped again. ‘Here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You sure? I don’t mind going a bit further, you know.’

‘Here’s fine.’

‘Okay.’

The younger one crouched down in the grass.

‘Right. Let’s do an equipment check,’ he said.

‘Right.’

‘Rods. Times two.’

‘Check.’

‘Bait. One tin of maggots.’

‘Check.’

‘Two tins of sweetcorn.’

‘Check.’

‘One lump of cheese. Two chorizo slices. One piece of bread. Ham.’

‘Check. Check. Check. Check.’

‘Spare float. Times one.’

‘Check.’

‘Catch bucket. Times one.’

‘Check.’

‘Spare reel. Times one.’

‘Check.’

‘Picnic. Times one.’

‘Check. No, wait.’

‘What? Forgot the picnic?’

‘Spare reel. I forgot the spare reel.’

‘We won’t need it I reckon. Where was I?’

‘Picnic.’

‘Check.’

‘Okay. Beers. Times four.’

‘Beers? What beers? I thought you weren’t drinking today.’

‘I’m not sitting by a lake for twelve hours without a beer.’

‘I thought you wanted to fish.’

‘Just say check, will you?’

‘Okay. Check.’

‘Okay.’

The mist spread itself across the lake, the sun rising fast. All was quiet and gentle and still but for the two figures preparing their rods for casting.

The first rod was about a metre and a half long complete with reel, float, weights and hook. The hook’s serrated edges would make it easier to cut into different parts of the fish’s mouth so that the more the fish thrashed and gurned to escape, the deeper the hook would burrow into its flesh.

The second rod was a two-metre olive tree stripped of its branches onto which the younger one had tied an old reel using decking rope and masking tape. Then he’d fixed a float, two weights and a nail he’d twisted into a hook on the end of it. He took the first rod for himself and handed the second one to his older brother.

‘Why do I get the crap one?’ he asked.

‘It’s not crap.’

‘Yes, it is. I’ll have the other one, thanks.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I reckon you’re so good that if anyone can catch anything on that thing it’ll be you.’

‘Tchuh.’

‘Come on. Let’s get away from the sunlight.’

They walked another few hundred metres before the younger one came up to a bush that was hanging over the water’s edge and stopped. ‘Here. This’ll do.’

‘You sure there’s not too much shade? I think we’re in too much shade.’

‘This’ll do.’

The older one set down his provisions with a clatter.

‘Will you keep it down!’ the younger one said.

‘I didn’t say anything.’

The younger one shook his head and crouched down on the other side of the bush. He took the maggot tin in his hands and opened it, spreading the sawdust about with his fingers. It quaked and heaved with life inside as maggots squirmed and shoved over and under each other. He dug his fingers around in the tin until he felt something give way. He put his thumb to his face and saw impaled on his nail a fat orange-striped maggot, a streak of squirming yellow trickling down his finger. It was still trying to reach its anus with what was left of its head when he wedged it onto the hook. Then he rolled a small piece of crumpled cheese into a ball and wedged it along the hook next to the maggot. He followed it up with a folded slice of greening ham.

‘Proper little sandwich artist,’ the older one said.

‘The old maggot-cheese-ham combo. Works every time.’

‘Tchuh.’

The younger one raised the rod to his side, swung it through the air and in one swift movement let the line spin out into the lake until the float landed with a soft plop into the water. He fixed his eyes on the red top of the float and watched it move leisurely across the lake. Then he reeled the line in towards him until it was taut and firm. It was a good cast. He crouched in the grass and waited for the float to go under.

For a moment he looked at his older brother, now rummaging noisily in the food bag. His line had already become tangled in the bush. He pulled out a small bottle of beer, unscrewed the top with his teeth, spat it into the water and grinned at him. The younger one turned back towards the lake.

The float was gone.

‘Damn,’ he said.

He picked up the rod and reeled the line in towards him. He felt nothing on the end of it, no resistance or pull. It was twisted around the line so that the top was upside down, skimming the surface of the lake.

He held the rod up as the line came out of the water dripping and trailing weeds. Holding his hand out and catching the line, he felt for the hook. The maggot and cheese on the end of it were gone. The ham was still there.

‘Fussy eaters, ain’t they?’ he heard behind him. ‘You’re supposed to catch them, not feed them.’

‘At least it bit on mine. You haven’t even cast yours out yet.’

‘Don’t need to. There’s sod all in this lake anyway.’

‘Well, something ate my maggot.’

‘Yeah. The current.’

‘What current? There is no current.’

‘Well, maybe you should fix it on better next time.’

‘Maybe you should…’ The younger one stopped.

‘What? I should what?’

‘Nothing. Forget it.’

‘Tchuh.’

This time he skewered a rose-tinted maggot alongside another brown one itself wedged between a ball of old cheese and a thin square of stale bread. The four companions were cast swiftly into the lake. Behind him he heard another bottle being opened. He closed his eyes and waited for the sun to shine on his face. It didn’t. He opened them again.

The float went under almost immediately. He clamped his hands onto the rod as it nearly shot out across the lake. His brother was now beside him, pulling the line towards him. The rod looked as though it was about to snap in half when the creature shot out of the water and flopped onto the grass.

They looked at its olive-green skin and the shades of pink and brown etched across its body. Its eyes roved wildly all over the grass, sensuous lips kissing the air, silently screaming.

With both hands, the older brother spread open the creature’s mouth, reached down inside its throat and jerked the line from side to side. A jelly-like substance splashed onto his fingers as the hook sprang free. The thing lay still.

The older brother picked up the soggy corpse and gently cradled it in the water, turning it over in his hands. A liquid ribbon of silver spread out in the water as he washed his hands of the creature’s blood and faeces.

‘Better call dad and tell him to pick us up,’ he said.

‘What shall I tell him?’

A sly, curiously vicious grin spread across the older brother’s face.

‘Tell him we’re having fish for dinner tonight.’

‘Okay,’ the younger brother said. He was grinning too.