Gift of the Sea

When the town was founded, the fish schooled thick enough to walk on. Stick a pole in the water, and it would stand up as if sunk in sand. We barely needed boats.

The fish were a gift, the traditions told us. We must be worthy of it.

We laughed at the idea. What would fish care about a little cheating, a little theft, a little blood spilled on land they never touched until they died, drowning in air?

Then the fish were gone. Nobody knew where.

We had no other industry.

We thought we knew sin. We were wrong.

Alone on the Diamond Sea

With a grunt, Jared hauled the net the final few feet. It tumbled, dripping and glittering, into the bottom of the boat. Several rough ovoids fell out and rolled. He kicked at one. It arced out over the water and landed with a splash.

Diamonds again. He picked one up, held it to the light, watched it sparkle.

You couldn’t eat diamonds. No-one on the island had any use for them, once everyone had some to decorate with.

“Stupid talking fish,” he muttered. He sat back and stared out to sea, turning the gem over and over in his fingers.