Fiction: Group 4
The Daughter
Island School, Khan, Rafa - 14, Fiction: Group 4
ost. Nothing but trees and wildlife surrounding me, no signs of civilization, no signs of people. There
is river that extended out to the sunset, showing no sign ending and seemed to go on forever. I sat
down on the edge of the river, with my bare feet splashing against the water. The coldness was like
frozen daggers penetrating my skin, making me more aware of my surroundings and sending a tingling
sensation down my spine. Small fish, bright blue and yellow, graze and peck at my feet. I try and hold back
a laugh as to not scare off the fish, the tickling becomes too much as I let out a small giggle and the
movement manages to scare of all the fish and the river becomes calm again.
I hear a splashing noise in the distance and see a long wooden fisherman’s boat in the distance. The gentle
waves of the river caress the bottom of the boat like a mother holding her child for the first time. As the
boat approaches the river banks I see the person manning the boat is a sixty-something year old man with
so many wrinkles and smile lines around his eyes, nose and mouth, reminding me of growth rings on the
bark of a tree.
The fisherman comes up to me and extends his hand, after a couple of formalities he asks me where I was
headed and I begin rambling on about coming out here to open my soul to the world when he cut me off
and invited me on the boat. Weighing the possibilities out, I decided that he meant no harm and went on.
He offered me tea and sat me down on a cushion as he began preparing lunch.
I asked him what brought him here while he was handing me a bowl of boiling hot soup. However, he
didn’t reply and instead asked how long I was in the area for and as I told him that I was only here for a day
or two more before heading back to the city, he became very curious about the wet markets back at home.
Whether the fish and greens there were being sold well or not. While I was telling him how there weren’t
that many stalls selling seafood lately, I noticed his eyes clouded up. He let out a sigh and slowly began to
tell me how his daughter stopped wiring him money a couple of months ago and he’s had to get by on his
own ever since.
He was making his living from selling fish and crops but the land is no longer fertile and the water no longer
fresh making it difficult to make a living. The fisherman described his story of how his daughter moved to
Hong Kong and new came back with tears in his eyes and a crack in his voice. I decided to open up to him
about how I, after moving out, cut most contact with my own parents save the odd birthday card or so. He
stared at me for a long time, too long in fact it made the hairs on my arm prickle and stand at edge and my
eyes dart from one side of the boat to the other, unable to match the fisherman’s uncomfortable gaze. He
asked me whether I thought they were good parents to me as an adolescent and I confessed that they did
make me happy although we weren’t awfully close. I felt a sense of nostalgia for my parents and understood
how the fisherman must be feeling but I let him tell me anyway that I should talk to parents, its the least I
can do considering that they did so much for me.
As night was quickly falling upon the unsuspecting sky, a heavy feeling was settling on top of me as well. I
took my time answering the fisherman and instead went to the very edge of the boat and watch the different
colors of the sunset. A golden-orange sun barely still above the horizon with its light skewed among the
clouds, some violet, some orange, some red, all vibrant and very much alive. It was as if I was watching a
ballet of calm in the sky and all my bad feelings were replaced by a much nicer feeling of calm as if nothing
bad could ever come of me, as if I was invincible. I remembered the times I ran around the living room of
my parent’s house, skirting through my mother and father’s legs pretending to be a superhero with a tea
towel knotted on the back of my shirt acting as my cape. I resolved to keep in contact with my parents
more often, maybe even move in with them for a month or two, after all they were getting old and I am the
only person they have.
The boat had not drifted too far from shore and I asked the fisherman kindly yet firmly if we could go back
to the river banks for if I was to make my way back to the hotel, to begin my journey home, before sunrise
I would have to make a move now. Sensing the urgency in my voice, he did so without any questions or
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