| Sports Fiction posted April 24, 2016 |
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The joys and sorrows of fishing.
Sunday Morning Fishing
by Ric Myworld
Sunday morning, the sun’s rays spray through the trees like laser beams.
A soft breeze blows across the lake’s crystal-clear water as a deep croak bellows from, undoubtedly, a Mack-daddy frog. I can see his legs jumping as they sizzle in the skillet, already.
I flip the tip of my ultra-light rod sending the fluorescent orange-stick bobber flying through the air, landing with a plunk as it sends a rippling effect atop the water.
I lay that crappie pole in a holder and grab up my rig for catching big catfish off the bottom. I give it a giant cast and it floats for about 50 yards to the lake’s center.
An ice-cold Budweiser, the “Breakfast of Champions,” I pop a top to wet my whistle as I sit down in my comfy-butt extra-padded fold-up chair.
The big pole doubles over, drag roaring, line zinging. I snatch it up and yank to set the hook, but the faster I reel, and harder I pull, the more line this monster peels off.
I slip, falling on my butt. Then, wallow in the muddy bank as my new rod and reel skim off down the lake.
I should have gone to church.
200 Word Story writing prompt entry
Sunday morning, the sun’s rays spray through the trees like laser beams.
A soft breeze blows across the lake’s crystal-clear water as a deep croak bellows from, undoubtedly, a Mack-daddy frog. I can see his legs jumping as they sizzle in the skillet, already.
I flip the tip of my ultra-light rod sending the fluorescent orange-stick bobber flying through the air, landing with a plunk as it sends a rippling effect atop the water.
I lay that crappie pole in a holder and grab up my rig for catching big catfish off the bottom. I give it a giant cast and it floats for about 50 yards to the lake’s center.
An ice-cold Budweiser, the “Breakfast of Champions,” I pop a top to wet my whistle as I sit down in my comfy-butt extra-padded fold-up chair.
The big pole doubles over, drag roaring, line zinging. I snatch it up and yank to set the hook, but the faster I reel, and harder I pull, the more line this monster peels off.
I slip, falling on my butt. Then, wallow in the muddy bank as my new rod and reel skim off down the lake.
I should have gone to church.
A soft breeze blows across the lake’s crystal-clear water as a deep croak bellows from, undoubtedly, a Mack-daddy frog. I can see his legs jumping as they sizzle in the skillet, already.
I flip the tip of my ultra-light rod sending the fluorescent orange-stick bobber flying through the air, landing with a plunk as it sends a rippling effect atop the water.
I lay that crappie pole in a holder and grab up my rig for catching big catfish off the bottom. I give it a giant cast and it floats for about 50 yards to the lake’s center.
An ice-cold Budweiser, the “Breakfast of Champions,” I pop a top to wet my whistle as I sit down in my comfy-butt extra-padded fold-up chair.
The big pole doubles over, drag roaring, line zinging. I snatch it up and yank to set the hook, but the faster I reel, and harder I pull, the more line this monster peels off.
I slip, falling on my butt. Then, wallow in the muddy bank as my new rod and reel skim off down the lake.
I should have gone to church.
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Writing Prompt Write a story of 200 words. not including the title. Any subject accepted. Must be exactly 200 words. |
 Recognized |
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The one that got away.
Pays
one point
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