Cole Beauchamp

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We often converse with just one syllable. Chill. Rad. It’s only when we’re high that we chatter like this, mouths popping words like confetti. “Reagan and his military-industrial complex,” you say.
“Iran-Contra,” I concur.
“And that counterrevolutionary knob, Oliver fucking North.”
“Not to forget the knob,” I agree.
You turn on your side, cradle my face. “Teachers blowing up in space. Nationalistic nonsense with Russia.” We nudge foreheads together, rub like cats. We don’t mention my boss, the bank manager, who tried to grope me tonight. Who fired me when I slapped him.
The news is on mute. TV light flickers blue and green on our faces, then all the colors of the rainbow.
“The ills of capitalism,” you say.
“Fuck money,” I say.
“Fuck everyone who uses money.”
“Wait, that’s us.”
“Oh yeah.” You roll a new joint. We in- in- inhale and hold. Exhale. “Fuck banks.”
I see the tightness in your eyes, know you’re onto something good. “Fuck ATMs.”
“Let’s put something on them. Make people think.”
“Yeah?” The pot has hit me and I’m floating. Freed by the weed. “Like a note? No, a rat. The rat race.”
“Or a squirrel. Man, I hate squirrels.”
“Or a Pop Tart.”
“Lila, what the hell? Pop Tarts?”
“I’m hungry.” My stomach rumbles, backing me up.
We go in the kitchen and open the first thing we see, a can of tuna fish. You squirt on some mayo and we eat it straight from the tin.
“Fish!” Your face is triumphant.
“Fish,” I repeat, savoring the word. Fish is one thing we have plenty of – five minutes and you’re at the river, downstream from the sewage plant. More catfish than you can throw a stone at.
I mime casting a line.
“Genius,” you whisper.

We amble to the porch for our fishing gear and stumble out the door, giggling all the way to the riverbank. You sort out the rod and we sit on the damp grass, toke while we wait. Time does its thing, stretching and condensing in the moonlight. It feels like hours pass but we’re only one joint down when there’s a tug.
A big ole catfish thrashes left and right as you reel it in. “Come here Mama, got a job for ya.”
I say a quick blessing before you spike it quickly, cleanly.
We weave down empty streets, you cradling the fish like a football, me trying to balance the duct tape on my head like a crown. Lamplight shines yellow pools on the black-slicked streets.
At the National Bank, you slap the fish onto the ATM’s glowing green screen. The light haloes its body, its tail, the cigarette I insert into its whiskered mouth.
You rip duct tape with your teeth, two strips a foot long, and cross it like X marks the spot.
We stand back to admire our work. It is magnificent. A work of art. A statement. We kiss the fish goodbye and hold hands all the way home.

Cole Beauchamp (she/her) is a queer writer based in London. She’s a Best Microfictions nominee and been shortlisted or placed in the Bridport, Bath and WestWord prizes for flash fiction. Her stories have appeared in New Flash Fiction Review, The Phare, trampset, Citron Review and others. She lives with her girlfriend and has two children.

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Read more from Cole:

Sci-Fi Shorts – ‘Still Me, With Cameron Diaz’s Face’
Flash Flood – ‘Today it Hasn’t Happened Yet’