Man-Shark And Crazy Mike

• Samuel Hair , Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2013

Ok. What I am about to tell you mate, is real gotcha, and I know you’ve gotten few good eggs in the past so blimey here listen. My name’s Jim, I think, and I used to be a swimmer, a real good one too. But now I’m just stuck in this prison of all things, listening to your questions that you’re asking me e.g. ‘What landed you in here?’ or ‘Did you really think you could get away with it?’- Those aren’t the type of questions you should be asking sir, I mean sure I had a few screws loose-but that wasn’t my fault honest to dearest.
Remembering the events of 12 years ago is hard, and sometimes there’s fog lingering about, blocking out the imagery but I know the general gist of it-those red tablets are trying to make me forget, and I really don’t know why a prisoner would need them, but hey whatever.
I was seventeen, and on my training run-this was one perfectly fine morning mind you, I remember the dirt road being all hard and the sun’s gentle rays as clear as day. I had a friend you see his name was…Mike, an old bloke and friend of my father’s. He was part of the four that won our town their own gold medal, Amazingly Mike he was called. However the time I knew him, he was described as an old crackpot, by most of the town-Dad didn’t like too talk about it, whatever this ‘It’ was, I resolved to find out.
I should have listened to my Old Pop you know? Not stuck my nose into this sorta stuff-leave that to the meddler Police we got hanging around here. As I was saying, I was running down the dirt road, to the lake to practice my swimming. Ben-swimming partner-and I had arranged to meet down there…watcha giving me that look for?
We got down the lake anyway, both of us wanted to go in without our shirts to test our own strength-and bravery. See, it was sorta a legend about our town that there was something that lived by our lake, something dark, evil and mysterious. Ben and I was like, pfft as if! The Old Bloke, Mike arrived when we were halfway into the lake. He was screaming Bloody Murder at us, or rather at something else.
“Get outta there you dafted fools!” he roared and being the idiots we were we ignored him-oops there goes the lights. Lightning and thunder outside, laughing at us with evil glee. Or I thought so. I never did finish the story. They always die. Man-Shark gets ‘em, see he’s right there. Standing tall, humanoid, with an over-extended jaw-like that ancient bird critter, Archaeo-something or other, he possesses clawed fingers painted red. You can see his eyes, consisting of glowing red rings. He has human like fingers and toes.
The Mirror smiles back at me, and the reporter’s dead, all in all, lovely days.