Ballad Of A Desolate Poet

• Katarina Bischoff, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2022

He stepped into the fisherman’s bar by the dock. It was a dimly lit establishment that smelled of beer and mould and rotting fish. The floods had submerged part of the bar in the wet season and there was still lichen on the walls and floor. He sat down with a group of its patrons – dishevelled, rough looking fishermen back from a day at sea.

He didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice, the displeased look on the fishermen’s faces. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am looking for one of your regular correspondences. A colleague, if you will. I would ask whether you know him, but as I have it on good authority that you do, I simply ask you this: where is he?” he said, showing a photograph of the man.

The poet had practised his line in the mirror the previous day, so when the bar goers completely ignored him, he felt hurt:
“I really have to find him,” the poet repeated.

Sighing, one of the fisherman finally spoke:
“Why are you looking for him?”
“There is a large bounty to his name.”

At that moment a shadowy figure emerged from the corner of the bar. “You are talking about me.”
“I suppose I am.”

The figure glared down at the poet, and the poet looked up at the figure - a strong-armed, red-bearded, sea-hardened sailor.

“Will this be easy or will this be hard?’ The sailor asked, yawning.
“Do my antics tire you?” said the poet.
“Yes,” he said, “and my work. Everything is tiring.” The sailor truly did look exhausted and sad.
“I can imagine, in your line of work.” The poet understood how he felt.
“All day at sea. I once loved the job but it’s demanding and lonely” said the sailor.
“I have my own woes: a professional bounty hunter tends to have a limited social life. It comes with the territory.” The poet no longer stood as tall.
“All I ever sought was adventure, the wild life of the sea. And at first it was such. Then I realised how gruelling it was, and how unprofitable as well.”
“If you seek adventure, be a bounty hunter! Good money and enough time to pursue my dreams - to write, to orate, to ponder.”

As they were talking, two fishermen looked on with confusion and shock. “Aren't you supposed to be fighting?” But the poet and sailor ignored them. They were still deep in conversation.

“It’s strange how easy it is to talk with you,” the sailor said. “For once someone actually listens to me.”
“I echo the sentiment; you are quite swell.”
“We should do this more often!”
“Yes, I think I shan’t kill you - at least not today,” the poet said, feeling rather bad about the whole thing, really.
“Thanks,” said the fisherman.
And so the men left the bar, and although rain was cascading down, they were actually quite happy, for they had both made a friend.