THE ANCIENT ART OF FLY FISHINGby Joshua Allen(Originally published in Static Movement)Howard could no longer steady his hands; another ailment age hadgiven him. His fingers shook as he tied a new fly to the end of hisnearly invisible line. He knew neither line nor fly existed, but thatdidn't steady his hands. He wished the prickly feeling on the bottomsof his feet were grass. When he used to go fishing for actual fish,he would occasionally lie down in the grass face down, placing hischeek against their cool blades, and dream of his wife Sara--backwhen he used to get drunk on her laughter and gulp down her body withhis eyes and hands whenever she'd been close.He cast his line up into the churning stream. In hisvisualization, there was a piece of orange yarn tied to the line: astrike indicator. He gave the line a little flip as the orange flecktraveled up, over, and then into the multidimensional skein in frontof him. The skein churned and weaved, several strands flowing throughthe twisted, shimmering blue ball, but none of it actually moving inthe three solid dimensions of space, nothing going up or down or out.If you looked just right at it, none of it moved at all.

He thought about Sara as he watched the fleck of orangeconvolute in the skein and come out unharmed. He had dreamed of herover and over again in the last sleep."The old guy got it? I don't see how. This isn't like fishing."Jersar Staten, their effervescent new captain, picked his teeth justto the periphery of Howard's field of vision. He wanted to act,Howard could tell, but there was nothing for him to do now but watch."He's got his methods. Howard's the best." Clare always believedin him. He needed that strength. She reminded him the most of Sara."He's got to be a hundred and seventy."Clare's voice was small. "He's much older than that."He rolled the line in a loop that looked like a bell from theside and circle if you looked straight down it, like one of those PVCornaments that people used to hang on their balconies that would seemto be a jagged piece of nothing with one breeze, and then revealitself as a six-pointed star in the next."Zip a little and then settle," he gave the line a little flipto straighten its approach, "you must settle," Howard whispered tohis fly. "You must sink, you must swim, you must dance.""What's he saying, Clare?""His readings are normal, Jersar.""That's not what I asked.""You must hurt." The indicator paused for a split second. "Youmust hurt." The skein released a bubble that broke off, shimmering,and disappeared in a wipe like a scene in a movie--a universe had

been born. "You must hurt. You must hurt..." Howard hesitated, thewords stinging even before they were real. "...the one you love."The indicator dipped out of sight. Howard held the line steadywith his right hand and heaved the rod up and back with his lefthand. His wrist flared in pain, but he could afford to ignore it. Theline went taught, wriggled, jerked back three times in quicksuccession, and then went limp. A rock--a thick patch ofhyperdimensional space--had seized his lure, nothing more.Howard let the slipstream flowing out of the skein pull his linedown and took a few steps closer to the slipstream, letting his linetrail off to his left. He planted his feet, lifted the tip of the rodand let the drag of force against his line bend his rod back. Then helifted it all at once and shot his fly forward, his seven-foot rodacting like a kid's slingshot.* * *"You're going fishing again?" Sara pulled her head up from herpillow. Another episode of hers. Howard wiped his brow, though it wasdry."Get some rest. I'll be back before you get supper on.""Howard, I feel sick. My head won't stop aching."Twenty years of marriage and her head always ached. At first, ithad been her way of ensuring her doctor would keep feeding her painpills. Then it had been a way to keep their son, Michael, at adistance. Her head pounded whenever she didn't want to do something,