When the Ripples Stopped Lying

The scent of worm guts still lingered on my fingertips as I launched the kayak into chocolate-milk colored water. Lake Conway wasn't being kind - three hours in and my hard bait collection lay scattered across the cooler lid, each crankbait tooth-marked but fishless. 'Should've brought the spinnerbaits,' I muttered, watching a gator slide silently off a cypress knee.

The Whispering Line

Midday sun turned the world into a sauna when it happened - my line twitched without ripples. 'Wind?' I scoffed at my own hope, thumb brushing the braid. Then the fishing line hissed sideways, cutting a V-wake through duckweed. I set the hook into what felt like a submerged mailbox.

'Talk to me, girl,' I crooned as the drag screamed. The bass exploded airborne, shaking its head with the violence of a dog killing a snake. When my net finally scooped her up, the bluegill pattern on my lure's belly had turned to silver confetti.