Friday’s Short Story

storytellerNo, I won’t be coming out tonight. You know why. Don’t make me… It’s the sharks, all right? There. I am frightened of sharks. I worry about shark attacks.

Oh fine, yes, statistics. I know that statistically you are more likely to be attacked by a shark when you’re in, like, the sea or whatever, but think about this: it is when you least expect an attack that you are at your most vulnerable.

Well it’s easy to say, isn’t it? Oh, don’t be scared. People tell me not to be scared, that it would be quite astonishing if a shark were to attack me here, sitting as I am in a room some twenty-five metres above sea level. Yes, but then the attacking shark would be able to turn my amazement to its advantage, swiftly overpowering me before I regained my composure.

Oh God. Sharks are prehistoric killing machines. They practice. I wouldn’t stand a chance. I can’t deal with sneaky dinosaurs at my age. They can shed up to fifty thousand teeth in their lifetime. I have, like, thirty-two, tops. You do the maths.

Also, also, I cut my finger this morning. If there is a shark even on the outskirts of town it knows where I am. Sharks can smell blood a mile away. I don’t know how you can stand there and not be frightened of sharks. They can smell blood. They can smell fear.

What, that smell? Listen: shark meat tastes of piss. This is why nothing eats sharks. Well, it’s one reason. Anyway. I just figured if my meat tasted of piss I could be safer. But then they might just chew me and spit me out. Like salty, wet chewing tobacco. I don’t know. It’s not a watertight theory but it’s all I’ve got.

These are the thoughts that will keep me awake tonight, as I lie in the dark listening for the warning signs of an imminent land-based shark attack.

I wish I knew what the warning signs of an imminent land-based shark attack might sound like.

Shark Attack
by Harris
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