Healing through story

Tag: Hemingway

shortfiction24 – santiago’s bones

Leland Strong’s quest for a moment of genuine prayer leads him to reflections on Hemingway’s fisherman Santiago, A somber story of an old man’s search for the meaning of his life.

Enjoy the story. Comments are always welcome.

Santiagos’ Bones

Bob Gillen

Eighty-two year-old Leland Strong sat in the last row of the empty church. A church he did not know. The afternoon sun sprayed stained glass color over the middle of the interior. The color did not reach Leland’s row. That was fine with him. He was not there for beauty or inspiration. He sought solitude, a respite from the noise in his heart. He yearned for the few moments of silent prayer that had eluded him till now.

Leland jumped as outside on the street a motorcycle screamed through its gears moving past the church. He settled back in his seat.

Leland’s thoughts wandered. An avid reader, he sometimes compared himself to a protagonist in the stories. He smiled as his mind now ran to the opening line in Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. He paraphrased silently. ‘He was an old man who lived alone in the stream of life and he had gone eighty-four days now without a prayer.’

Running with the comparison, Leland pictured himself as Hemingway’s fisherman Santiago. A man who knew only one thing. Fishing. And he showed up for that every day. Even after eighty-four days without a fish. In his own lifetime Leland had known more than one thing. He was now long retired, living alone, most of his family and friends gone. And he showed up every day, searching for true solitude, for meaning. 

Leland scowled as he heard the backup beeping of a truck. More noise. In the parking lot the driver slammed trash bins as he emptied them into the truck’s maw. 

Quiet descended on the building. The day Santiago caught his great fish, Leland told himself, he had gone out far beyond his usual fishing waters. He had gone deep into the sea, beyond the other fishermen, beyond his own familiar locations. And in the deep he had found his great fish. Now, sitting alone in the depth of this church, Leland hoped he had moved beyond his usual routine as he sought his personal deep waters. Going beyond the usual places where he sought peace. A dark hollow had inched its way into Leland’s heart. A hollow he yearned to fill with prayer.

Leland cocked his head at the sound of shuffling footsteps. A man entered Leland’s pew from the far end, moved closer to him. He carried a plastic bag stuffed with what looked like clothing. He wore baggy, soiled jeans, a dirty white tee shirt, sandals on his feet. Long unkempt hair. A homeless man.

“You’re in my seat,” the homeless man said.

“The entire church is empty.”

“I have a deal with them.” He gestured to the front of the church with his thumb. “I sleep here every afternoon till they close up.” He waved an arm at Leland. “You have to move.”

“Whatever.” Leland shrugged, moved across the aisle to the other last row.

The homeless man stretched out on the pew. He tucked the bag of clothing under his head for a pillow. In moments he was asleep, breathing softly.

Leland stared across at the homeless man. It’s hopeless trying to find a quiet place. The homeless man began to snore. Loud enough to distract.

Leland continued to stare at the homeless man. He took in the man’s gaunt frame, highlighted by clothes that were much too big for him. The bones in his arms stood out, stretched over his sun-darkened skin. Leland looked down at his own frame. He too wore a tee shirt a size too big for himself. He held out his arm. Do people see me as gaunt, thin? 

A thought niggled at Leland’s mind. As he gazed at his arm, he began to realize…he was no Santiago. The metaphor was all off. No, he was Santiago’s fish. To make the metaphor more precise, he was the skeleton of Santiago’s fish. He was a reflection of what was left of Santiago’s quest. The remains of his own lifelong quest. Nature had chewed at Santiago’s fish. Bitten off chunks of flesh, down to the bones. Was he no different? A lifetime of living had chipped away at Leland’s ego, leaving him feeling empty, desolate, without depth.

That was it. Only Leland’s bones remained. Bones that told a story. Bones that pointed to a once full body. His hope was that the bones would reveal the fullness of what he had been and done in his lifetime.

Leland thought, I may have been a great fish at one time. Moving through my seas freely. I have lived a good life. I have cared, given, loved, been loved. Now, at my age, life has chewed away at my greatness, bitten chunks off my ego, until I am simply a skeleton of my earlier self. My bones are now what people see. A withered old man. Age spots, a shaky walk, hesitant at times, uncertain of much. But the image tells a story.

Leland grinned. In the dim light of the church, a homeless man snoring nearby, he saw himself as the skeleton that, like Santiago’s great fish, revealed its earlier glory. When Santiago had rowed back to his village, his fellow fishermen stared in awe at the bones of what was once a great fish. Leland realized he cannot control what people see of him. Even what he sees of himself. His hope – in his meager exterior, in his bones, they see what brought him to this moment in life.

Leland stood, leaned on the back of the pew in front of him. Alone in the church, except for the homeless man, he extended his arms forward. “I am a man of bones,” he whispered, “standing as a testament to a life well lived. I have swum freely in the sea of life. I have been hooked, lashed to life’s boat. Picked apart.” 

Leland found his moment of prayer.

***

shortfiction24 – why I write

Why I Write

This week my short stories yield to a few personal comments on writing. I have several stories in the works, all of which need endings. Coming soon. Today I attempt to answer the question: why do I write? I don’t have a single answer for that. It has varied over time. Varied as I transitioned from non-fiction to fiction. 

Presently a Hemingway quote moves me: “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”

And there is so much hurt. Some personal, some physical/medical, some PTSD from COVID lockdowns, much of it political and global. So much beyond my control. Writing short stories is my way of dealing with the hurt. My hurt. The hurt that so many others bear.

Only last night I discovered an interview with writer Percival Everett. I had never heard of him before. He talked about why he writes. He is not an outliner. He carries it in his head, creating what he calls a kind of map. Ironically, a map is, for him, an excuse to get lost. “It gives you a certain kind of security that allows you to wander into a place you don’t know.”

I can relate to that. I rarely outline. When I am carrying a short story in my head, I don’t know where it will take me. Often into a place I don’t know. It might be an unexpected, even quirky ending. It could be a character whose traits I initially knew nothing about. And it is both fun and a challenge to go to these unknown places.

My Readers

Everett goes on to talk about who his readers are. “When people ask me who’s my audience, I can’t imagine one, since everybody’s different. So my audience has to be myself. I write for myself, knowing that at any given time I’m not the same person that this was created for. The writer who made it is gone and no longer exists. So what it meant to that writer is gone too. The only meaning that’s left is to be made by whoever is reading it at that moment.”

I can appreciate that comment. Writing coaches so often advise authors to identify their ideal readers, even if it is a narrow base. I have always found that difficult. Yes, I know who some of my readers are. I have no clue who most of them are. (Always assuming I actually have readers!) 

I do write for myself. And yes, I come back to my drafts, my stories, as a different person each time I read the item. I can only assume my readers come to them differently as well. 

Why do I write? To go to unknown places. Places that may alleviate the hurt.

shortfiction24 – no more regrets

Finn’s day turns around when he meets a deep sea fisherman on Artie’s bait barge.

Today’s story is an homage to Steinbeck and Hemingway, characters very loosely based on characters from the two American authors: Steinbeck’s Doc and Hemingway’s Santiago.

Enjoy the story!

No More Regrets

Bob Gillen

Finn eased his nineteen foot Boston Whaler against the side of Artie’s bait barge. He tied off bow and stern, hoisted a battered cooler onto the deck.

“Whadya got for me today, Finn?” Artie called out.

“Squid.”

“Your timing is perfect. I got a couple guys looking for them.”

Finn lifted a basket to the deck. “Mussels too.”

“Always in demand.”

Artie carried the cooler and basket into the shack that sat in the center of the barge. Outside, next to the door, stood a rusted Coca-Cola ice chest. Artie pointed to it. “Grab a beer, Finn. On me.”

Finn pulled a can of Miller Lite from the Coke cooler.

“How’s business, Artie?”

“Can’t complain. Been out here for twelve years now, and every year gets a little better. The season is already slowing down for winter, though.”

Finn sat on a bench and sipped his beer. He watched the boats come and go along the channel near the barge. Artie had moored his barge near the outlet of the bay, where bay meets ocean. Lots of traffic. He had a large sign on the barge: Artie’s Bait. Snacks. No Gas.

Finn turned when he heard a quiet rumble from the other side of the barge. A Bertram42 fishing boat pulled alongside the barge. One man behind the wheel. Finn got up and wrapped the man’s lines around cleats.

“Thanks.” A man, looking to be about seventy, khaki shorts, white tee stepped onto the barge. Artie came over while Finn went back to sitting on the bench. 

“I got your squid, Skip.”

“Excellent.”

“I’ll transfer them to your boat. Grab a beer and join Finn for a minute.”

Skip pulled a can of Coke from the cooler. He sat next to Finn. 

“I’m Skip.”

“Finn.”

Skip hoisted his Coke. “Need my wits. Beer can wait for the trip home.”

“Where you headed? That’s a beautiful boat you got there.”

“Brought her up from North Carolina twenty years ago. Six hundred horses under the deck. Her name is Marlina. My wife was Lina. My passion is marlin fishing.”

“Any luck with the fishing?”

Skip shook his head. “Not lately. Haven’t caught anything worth talking about all summer. This will be my last run before I haul her out for the winter.”

“Going out alone?”

“No choice. My usual buddies are all busy.”

Artie stepped over. “I got them in your cooler.”

“Gotcha. Thanks Artie.”

A small skiff pulled up to the barge. The front of the boat was loaded with seaweed-covered crab traps. A boy held the boat while a girl hopped out. “We need a bucket of fish parts for our crab traps.”

Artie handed her a bucket, she paid, and they left.

“You a fisherman?” Skip asked.

“I am, but exactly the opposite of what you do. I collect marine specimens from tidal pools. Sell them to universities, mostly in the Midwest.”

“They got no ocean there, huh.”

“Right.”

“Hey, here’s a thought.” Skip said. “How about coming out with me?”

“Now?”

“Why not. I’ll be two nights at the most. I got her stocked with food and snacks. You can see the other side of marine life. Large scale. I’m going for swordfish.”

“That’s tempting, Skip. But no. I’ve got orders I need to fill right away. And low tide will hit in a couple of hours.”

“Low tide comes twice a day, every day. Just sayin’.”

“Gotta keep the clients happy.”

Skip pointed his Coke can at Finn. “I’d offer a raincheck, but not sure I can deliver on that.”

“There’s always next year.”

Skip said nothing.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

Skip cleared his throat. “I got surgery waiting for me. First week in October.”

“Anything major?”

Skip pointed to his stomach. “A tumor in my gut. Size of a tennis ball. My doc says it’s benign. They won’t know for sure till they remove it.”

“Yeah, that’s major.” Finn sipped his beer.

“They tell me up to five hours on the table, then a week in the hospital…and a few months recovering at home.”

“No heavy lifting, right?”

“You got it.”

Artie stepped over.

“Skip, I don’t like you going out alone.”

“No worries, Artie. I’ll keep within five miles.”

“That’s five miles too far for you.”

Another small boat pulled up to the barge. Artie stepped over to help them.

Skip took a swig of his Coke, retched, ran to the edge of the barge. He heaved into the water.

When he came back to the bench, wiping his mouth and chin, Finn said in almost a whisper, “The tumor is malignant, isn’t it.”

Skip said nothing.

“I’ve seen it before,” Finn said. “A neighbor…it didn’t go well.”

Skip stared out across the bay. “Today is my last run. Period. Even if they get it all, I won’t be able to do any heavy lifting…including fishing for the big ones.”

“That’s gotta hurt.”

“You have no idea.”

The two sat in silence for a time.

“You sure you don’t want to go out with me.”

Finn shook his head. “Orders.”

“Can’t that university in Nebraska wait one more day for their starfish?”

Finn shook his head. “And I don’t have a change of clothes with me.”

“Who needs clean clothes? We’re fishing.”

Finn shook his head.

“You know,” Skip said. “I used to have a long bucket list. Just one item now. Take Marlina out one last time. Bring in a big fish.”

“I never had a bucket list,” Finn said. “Always took it one day at a time.”

“No dreams? No goals?”

Finn hesitated. “I have a short list of regrets. Things I wish I had seen or done.”

“Like what?”

Finn drained his beer, crushed the can in his fist. “I met a French girl once, back in 2012. We were at a TED talk. Kinda hit it off. She invited me to spend a week in Paris with her.”

“That sounds seriously cool.”

“Yeah. It started out that way. My last night in Paris, I planned to spend it with her. But she wanted to go out to a jazz club with friends. I got pissy, begged off, stayed home. She went out anyway.”

“A party girl.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t regret not seeing her after that. But I do regret missing the jam session They went to that night  at Le Duc des Lombards cafe when they recorded ‘The A, B, C and D of Boogie Woogie.’ Charlie Watts from the Stones, he was the drummer.”

“Don’t know that album.”

“I play it every time I have my head up my ass. Sets me straight.”

The conversation trailed off.

Skip got up. “My fish is waiting.”

He climbed aboard and started the engine. 

Finn got up too. His eyes raked stem to stern over the Bertram. He walked into the shack.

A moment later he came out, took another beer from the cooler. He hopped into the Bertram. “I’m going with you.”

Skip grinned. “No regrets?”

Finn untied the lines and pushed off from the barge. “Artie will watch my boat. The Midwest can wait on its starfish. There’s a swordfish out there to scratch off your bucket list. And my regrets list.”

***

© 2025 Bob Gillen

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑