The Dead Girls

With a grin, he thinks, It’s because I’m just like my old man: one stubborn sonofabitch.

The rod jerks in his grip, snapping him back to reality.  He almost loses the pole.  He is fishing here, isn’t he?  And this is what his father wanted from him, isn’t it?  The rod jerks yet again and the slack is taken up.  The pole thrashes, bends to the water, forming an upside down U.

He starts to reel.  Slowly at first, like his father taught him.  He doesn’t want to snap the line.  Reels a bit more, pulls back, takes in some slack.  Does it again.  Something is fighting.  He can feel it flopping in the water.  Big, too, a bass most likely.  Got to be careful, or he’ll loose it.

Reeling, reeling, reeling.  Christ, how far did he cast out?  It should be in by now.  It’s the first bite of the night, and he ain’t leaving until he catches something.  He made a promise to his father.

He peers into the water, hands moving automatically, and finally something is drawn into sight; but it’s not what he expected.  Not a fish, no, a light—crawling upward through the depths.

He holds his breath but doesn’t stop reeling. 





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