When the River Glowed

Midnight found me waist-deep in the Chattahoochee's ink-dark current, braided line whispering through calloused fingers. The moon hid behind clouds, leaving only my headlamp's amber circle dancing on the water - until the bluegill hit.

'Just a baby,' I muttered, unhooking the shimmering scrap. Three hours and twelve dinks later, my thermos sat empty and doubts swam thicker than catfish. 'Should've brought the UV jig,' I cursed, knee-deep in a muskrat hole. That's when the river caught fire.

Phosphorescent swirls erupted downstream. My forgotten glowstick rod arced like lightning, drag screaming a hymn I'd waited years to hear. The beast rolled - a flathead's golden eye reflecting constellations - before snapping my lucky hat clean off. When dawn's first blush found me laughing in the shallows, the hat floated back bearing teeth marks like a lover's note.