'Vanilla like maggots' by Derville Quigley

Sometimes we are thrown together like dandelion seeds floating in the breeze. One landed on a jetty where I used to fish.

This boy was a dancer. We recognised each other from sports days. While I sprinted barefoot towards the under 12s finish line, he wore a kilt and clattered his heels on a stage. 

“I think I know you from somewhere”, he said.

“You do?”. I didn’t want to give anything away.

The boy in a skirt could tap unbelievably fast. Crowds admired his stiff posture, and high kicks as his body cut through jig after reel.

That day I played it cool. I knew the lake well, could see the ripple of tench lurking in the reeds.

He sifted through his collection of spinners. I squeezed the ball of dough in my pocket.

“What bait are you using?” I asked.

“Maggots. Vanilla flavour. Fish like ‘em.” He seemed so sure yet hadn’t caught a thing.

He opened his lunchbox revealing the wriggling mass. However, I was more taken with his slingshot.

“Would you mind if I had a go?”

“Sure.” And he filled the cup with grubs.

I set my sights on the centre, held out my arm and pulled.

He came in close, placed his trembling hand on mine and guided it back further. The rubber was so taut it almost snapped. Yet we lingered for a moment, enchanted by the flickering reflections of trees, and the unknown depths below. Neither of us wanting to let go.