I dreamt of him on his boat where he stood stiff at the typewriter, a crisp glass of gin by his elbow clicking with ice. He looked over at the shotgun which hung above a picture of a Picasso-esque matador, the cape a dancing black square, wild eyes in great ecstatic loops. There was a shadow growing under the rolling water. Faster and faster, bigger and bigger, and then it surged, long jaws emergent, and clapped shut around the vessel—for a moment smiling like an alligator—before slipping back beneath the waves. The sea boiled like a smoking bouillabaisse, many fish heads tumbling with startled eyes, then it settled clean. Sea birds floated and whirled in the cold theater of the sky.

John Spudich is a writer, painter, and clinical psychologist. A fan of the short form, his latest work has recently appeared in 101 Words, Book of Matches and Witchcraft. He is working on a collection of stories and flash pieces which cohere around the themes of life transitions and transformational moments.