Nov 10, 2009 by

Round 10 Challenge – Kill off one of your characters (Word limit – 1200 words)

Read OLAF 9 here (see “Similar Posts” at the bottom of this post for any earlier entries)

The gillnetter Jealous Tides was the only vessel they’d seen all morning. Ron had brought Annikki and Ransu out thirty miles offshore to The Fingers on the northern edge of Jeffrey’s Ledge. He’d intended to stay in coastal waters but Annikki pleaded he take them out. The spiked coffees he’d been drinking made it easier to sway him.

Alka Seltzer hadn’t done the job that morning. The Robert Benchley quote “The only cure for a real hangover is death” spoke from the fridge door magnet like a grim prophesy. He’d never been one for hair of the dog and he never drank before fishing but he hadn’t been in his right mind recently. So he jacked up his coffee with Kahlua and Baileys. It eased the headache. A few more cups and he almost felt himself again.

It was flat calm with steel blue skies. The Fingers was a classic spot for tuna, a place where you could run into big fish. But there hadn’t been much going on out there recently. It would likely amount to a day of glorified whale watching.

At 24, Annikki was almost a decade older than Ransu. She mothered her brother over everything from sunscreen to seasickness. Ron had expected Ransu to be the one enthusiastic about fishing and Annikki the one lukewarm but it was the opposite. Ransu was as morose as she was upbeat. In baggy jeans and a hoodie, he spent most of the day slouching on deck while Annikki and Ron sat in the tuna tower.

“Don’t mind him,” Annikki told Ron, looking back at Ransu, who was sitting on an overturned bucket near the stern looking out at sea. “He’s just shy.”

Ransu wasn’t sulking out of shyness. The previous night he overheard Annikki speaking with Olga in low tones about Ron. It was then he realized his mother had feelings for another man besides his father. In that instant Ron had transformed to him from a friendly fisherman to a threat to his parents’ marriage.

Annikki, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than her mother and Ron to reunite. She’d felt this way even before meeting Ron. She resented her stepfather, whom she saw as frigid and undeserving of her mother. Olga first told Annikki about Ron last year, about how she’d been unable to bury that part of her past. It was Annikki who’d suggested the trip to Hagan’s Harbor. She even tried scheming a way for Pellervo to stay behind but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Olga was convinced the trip would serve to put old demons to pasture. Annikki had other plans. She was sure her mother’s future happiness lay with Ron.

By noon it had climbed to eighty degrees. In the distance a whale spouted, its vapor hanging in the air. Annikki removed her sweater and tied it around her waist. She wore a short tank top. She and Ron worked their way through a thermos of coffee and kahlua, buzzed and laughing, as Ron told her about tuna fishing, or if you were down on your luck, tuna wishing.

He told her how he and his deckhand spent a good part of their summers in the tuna tower, the days long and hot with the summer sun high in the sky. From the tower’s height they would scan the ocean for signs that tuna might be nearby: schools of mackerel or a fishy smell or circling birds or larger sea life like whales or porpoises, for where there is life there is more life. If it was morning they might sight the splashes of feeding tuna or in the afternoon see their long wakes running into the breeze. They could go for days without sighting tuna and Ron’s feet would be sore from standing and his eyes tired from searching.  But then they would have the tuna running before them and Ron would climb out to the tuna stand, which projected twenty-two feet out from the bow. Soon he would be perched in the basket, guiding the deckhand with quick gestures – to the left, cut right, faster, slower – the tuna still running before them. Then all the long days of fruitless searching were worthwhile, worth every empty-handed evening, and he forgot the fatigue of his feet and his eyes and there was nothing but the chase.

In his mind he saw the tuna running before them. The harpoon raised, poised, hurled. For a moment hanging there in mid-air before the hit. A flurry onboard. Hoisting up that beautiful creature. Making the bleeding cuts behind the pectoral fin. The gas hissing out of the puncture. Sawing off the head. The insides spilling out. The blood dyeing the boat’s wake. Scraping out the cavity. Packing the fish into the ice hold. Slicing open the stomach, long as a woman’s thigh, out of nothing but curiosity to see the herring and squid and whatever else once served as the tuna’s fare. Washing the death from the deck. And then, in the nights, waking to climb up and urinate under the stars with the sea splashing glitter and climbing down below again to fall asleep to the sounds of whales swimming under the hull.

“Show me what it’s like,” Annikki said, snapping him from his reverie.


“To hold the harpoon. On the tuna stand.”

Ron paused. “Ransu,” he yelled, motioning him up. “I need you to take the helm.” Ransu climbed sullenly up the ladder. “Just hold her steady,” Ron said, giving him the wheel. He pointed to the shocker, the button that triggers the current that runs through the throwing line and harpoon that electrocutes the fish. “Just whatever the hell you do, don’t push this button.”

Anniki and Ransu were arguing in Finnish so Ron climbed down the ladder. A few minutes later Annikki descended. With her arms overhead the bottom of her tank top came up high on her lower back. Her jeans were ripped in several places below the seat, exposing the pale skin of her upper hamstrings. She looked down and he turned aside, pretending to be busy at the side rail.

They went to the bow. “Careful. Hold on with both hands,” he told her as she walked out along the tuna stand over the water. The harpoon lay perched crosswise over the basket. He followed close behind her. Once she climbed into the basket, he freed the harpoon and brought it around so the dart pointed forward with the bow. He reached around her with one arm and showed her where to grasp the rod.

He leaned in, his chin just above her shoulder. The mix of coffee and alcohol, of salty ocean breeze and faint perfume, made for a heady combination. Standing in the basket with his arms around Annikki and the ocean sprawling before them, he was happier than he’d been in years. It wasn’t to last for long. Within the hour one of them would be dead.

Similar Posts:


Related Posts


Share This


  1. Oh Olaf you sly dog! You really know how to play this game exceptionally well. Voting is going to be excruciatingly difficult this round.

  2. Great stuff Olaf. Nice play on the challenge. I think you have raised yourself from a slight trough last week to new crest. I wonder if even you know yet who will live for longer than the hour.
    Jodi has said it about the voting. Perhaps the Dice Man will have a part to play!

  3. You should take bids for your votes. Anyone for a bag of tuna?

  4. Beran

    I totally agree with Jodi! you really do know how to play this game. Cant wait for the next round.

  5. tetra

    hmmm…okay. sly as a dog or slippery as a fish?

    again you work at creating expectation in the reader while not alot happens. your forte. So I suppose we could have well expected such an approach from the king o the deep.

    at least you didnt give in to melodrama…

    so far the jury is out

  6. Jen

    Your description of fishing for tuna is just marvellous. And a very sneaky reply to the challenge at the end! Well played.

    I don’t like skipping into Ransu and Anniki’s perspectives, but overall it doesn’t do much damage.

  7. You’re such a devil Olaf, leaving us wondering like this!
    You rocked me into a daze with your tuna fishing descriptions, like a lullaby, and then yanked me back into reality with your last sentence. Slightly frustrating, but very well done.
    I hope I get to find out how this all goes down.

  8. I wasn’t trying to be cunning by playing the anticipation card. I just ran out of words. That’s why I ended up delaying the death scene instead of rushing through it. It’s got nothing to do with being clever or having figured out how Fourth Fiction voting works.

  9. tetra

    they say fish is good for the brain..?

  10. tetra

    …or might that be the Kahlua…

  11. Olaf, this decision has been very difficult this round. Not sure how closely you are all to follow the prompt, but seems to me you didn’t, quite. No one died here. Yet. I hope no one will be eliminated.

  12. Eros

    Olaf, I love the truth with which you write. I have meet a great deal of fisherman like Ron and it is nice to be able to see into the softer side of them. To look at one you would think that they are all cold and hard, you have managed over the many rounds so far to show the truth that they are not all truly like this. You have also managed to show the main reasons that they appear this way, a broken heart and drink. I also like your use of foreshadowing, it is not an easy skill to use, but you seem to do it well. I think you have a great talent for story telling. People must love to have you around the camp fire. I hope to see more of your writing next round. Love, Eros

  13. Olaf, this is reeeeeeally sneaky (c:

    Good, but sneaky. I love how you’ve set this up. You’ve got an alcoholic with a crush on his niece, an emo Finnish kid who hates him, a girl who thinks it’s appropriate to wear tight jeans and a tank top on a tuna boat – and an electrified harpoon.

    And the line “whatever you do, don’t press THAT BUTTON THERE”.

    It’s almost (almost) funny.

    They say there’s a thin line between comedy and tragedy, though…

    Skipping into Ransu and Anikki’s thoughts – when before, we’ve only ever had Ron (and sometimes Olga) to deal with – was a bit strange.

    I do like the sense of building up, though. You might have put off killing one of your characters for now, but you can’t put it off any longer!

  14. Not sure if I said it before, but reading all of your comments is a real highlight for me.

    You’ve got my word. If I make it to the next round, someone’s dead. Boy, it’s a bloodthirsty audience here.

  15. seldomseen

    oh i don’t know littlestar… i’m hard pressed to think of anyplace inappropriate for a woman to wear tight jeans and a tank top. wouldn’t you concur Olaf? seems like the majority of 20 somethings wear just that. who are we to argue with fashion?

  16. I’m staying out of the tight jeans discussion. You’ve gotta watch what you say when you’re vying for votes.

    Host, I’ve got a hell of a challenge for you next time around. How about to post the video on time? That should be a sunovabitch for you.

  17. tetra

    Well, like your protagonist, broken hearted but not sentimental, farewell seaman.

    a yarn which refused to spin out until the stakes got this high.

    maybe not the strongest or easiest plot to score with, but you sure made the case for old school where the story is in the telling.

    and so you have left me pondering what makes a good story – what happens, or the things you leave out. It doesnt have to be such a super plot as long as you have us with you on the ride and you managed that.

    and thats also how you can catch a fish, when it bites on your hook and you draw her in.

    and now we are going to let you off the hook to go back to whatever you do best. take care

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *