by Tim Dicks

We went out and caught a dolphin. The feat required slow jams played low and twenty-dollar wine drizzled over the surface of the water. Herndon hung over the side of the boat with a net and, when he slipped it over the creature, I grabbed on and we both held tight. The dolphin thrashed and was almost too much for our little motor, but we held fast and overcame.

At home we parked outside the carport and carried it under the corrugated aluminum roof. You’d be surprised by the weight of a dolphin. We rolled it out of the net next to my mud shoes and a cooler of beer and it flattened there, curling the rim of its blow hole while Herndon went inside to heat some oil. I had my cleaning knife ready but when I got close the dolphin opened its mouth and started honking out stuff you’d hear on the heavier parts of the radio. That dolphin’s voice was really terrible and you had to wonder where it picked up its taste in music. “Someone else tried to fish this dolphin,” I said. Herndon was busy in the kitchen, knocking pans around on the oven, and couldn’t hear me. “But they used the wrong tunes.”


Tim Dicks writes a flash piece everyday at He lives in Orlando with a cat and a woman and a lot of dirty coffee cups and pint glasses.
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