flash fiction by mar ovsheid
Sockeye Sal and Me
None of the letters I send make it into your hands. All my apologies and lovesickness and heartaches are instead delivered to a fisherman named Sal. He starts sending semi-fresh-caught fish to express his condolences.
I write directly to Sal. Did she leave a forwarding address?
He responds with a mirror carp, which I eventually learn means No, I’m sorry.
Every time I think I’ve finally pinned down your new address, the letters return unopened, marked: Address not valid/undeliverable. I send the notes off to Sal, mostly so that my heart doesn’t completely go to waste. He replies with a brown trout. The feeling is mutual.
I take a day off from work to visit your old house and meet Sal. He’s an old wizard, but with taxidermized fish and mounted tackle covering his walls instead of herbs and potions. He cooks up a blue catfish for the both of us, like he’s been promising for months.
“You try sendin’er a fish?” He asks while washing guts off his hands. “Maybe an icebox like that’ll grab the postman’s attention, and he’ll see that the package makes it to ‘er.”
I laugh him off at first, but after a few drinks I buy one of his beautiful sockeye salmon and we prepare it for shipment in Sal’s signature style. I mail the box the next day, choosing the address I think most likely to reach you.
The fish isn’t returned.
A week goes by.
The phone rings.
“Hello? Anyone there?” Your voice is still half-scolding, half-singing.
“Y-yeah. Hi. Is this—”
“It’s Melinda. Hey, want to come over tomorrow, after you’re done at work?”
“Yeah, sure. What’s your address?” I shakily locate a pen and prepare my arm.
“Thought you had it.” You sound disappointed.
“I wasn’t sure if I was right, I just would want to have it so that—”
You cut me off and fill me in. I pass through work in stupefaction and drive, dazed, to your house. I ring the bell and put my hands into my pockets. You open the door.
“You look amazing, I—”
You slap me across the face with the raw, slightly-less-fresh sockeye, chuck it at my head, and slam the door. I stand outside for a moment, bewildered by the sting as the slime drips down my face. I cry a little on my drive home and let my tears wash the goo away.
I leave the poor salmon to sit and rot on your porch and reveal the hundreds of tiny notes Sal and I stuffed inside. I never hear from you again and I don’t write.
A few weeks later, I watch a crow rip a tiny scroll into pieces, using the paper as insulation for its nest. None of the letters I put inside that fish made it into your hands. I send a tin of Atlantic mackerel to Sal to break the news.
Mar Ovsheid is a spoilsport who doesn't like to run or drive. Her poetry and fiction have been featured in publications such as Roi Fainéant Press, The Minison Project, and oranges journal. Mar works as a housekeeper, has her high school diploma, and is visible at @mar_ovsheid on Instagram.