https://www.fairfieldscribes.com/issue-43.html
My twitching fingers slide roe onto the sharpened hook, blood blooms on my pierced thumb. In one smooth motion, I propel the filament across the water into the churning river shallows. The drift in this spot is long. I grip the rod, eyes intent on the tip; I command my hands to remain still.
Fish don’t care about neurodegenerative disorders. Fish don’t conspire about poor dad when they think I can’t hear. Fish don’t want me to sell my house.
Fish fight until they can’t.
The line pulls taught. Instinct takes over. My traitorous hands reel in a silver trout.
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