When the River Whispers at Midnight

Moonlight pooled on the Mississippi's surface like spilled mercury as my waders whispered through cold November shallows. The thermos of bitter coffee in my chest pocket had gone lukewarm three casts ago, but the spinnerbait kept singing through the dark anyway.

'Should've brought the green one,' I muttered, watching my silver lure vanish into ink-black water. The fifth cast landed with a slap that sent ripples dancing across liquid shadows. Then—a tension so sudden my braided line sang like violin wire.

Rod bent double, drag screaming a protest. Something primal surged through the cork handle into my bones. 'Not channel cat,' I told the night air, heart hammering as the beast surfaced—pale belly flashing, whiskers like bicycle spokes. The flathead's thrash echoed across sleeping riverbanks.

When the ruler stopped at 43 inches, I laughed until fog curled from my lips. Dawn found me knee-deep in coffee-stained moonlight, wondering if giants remember the fools who tempt them.