My wife stood by my side in slowly flowing thigh-deep water as I taught her how to cast a fishing rod. She watched as I demonstrated proper technique, arcing the line into the brilliant sky.
A hundred feet away the float and fly dropped like tiny bombs. A perfect cast. I surprised myself, as I’m not a great fisherman; in fact, I’ve never fished before.
Silver firs shivered along the riverbank as I reeled in the fishless fly. I noticed a weathered wooden sign nailed to the trunk of a tree. “Welcome to Oregon,” it said in faded brown letters. Odd, as I live far from the Pacific Northwest; in fact, I’ve never been to Oregon.
I turned to hand off the rod, but found the space occupied by my wife a moment ago to be empty. I looked far downriver, where the watercourse changed abruptly, bending sharply and disappearing into a narrow canyon. There, the calm waters were supplanted by raging white rapids. And, somehow, there too was my wife, her gaping mouth skimming the surface as the current pulled her under. She half-screamed, half-gurgled my name, and then she vanished. I roared in agony and knew in my heart she was gone, but I dropped my pole and dived into the river, despite knowing I had no chance to catch her; in fact, I can’t even swim.
When I broke the surface gasping for air I came to. I was wet not with water but with sweat and tears, in pitch dark broken only by the glow of the digital clock. I caught my breath and composed myself. I was safe and alone, far from Oregon. Like so many figmental faces in dreams, my wife’s was quickly forgotten; in fact, I’ve never married.
Jackson Ellis is a writer and editor from Vermont. His work has appeared in The Vermont Literary Review, Sheepshead Review, and Broken Pencil, among other publications. He is the co-publisher of VerbicideMagazine.com.
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