When the Catfish Came Whispering

Moonlight silvered the Mississippi's currents as my waders sank into the muddy bank. The glow stick bobber cast an eerie green halo on the water - my third night chasing flatheads, and the cooler remained emptier than my caffeine-drained thermos.

'You reckon they're sulking?' My fishing partner Jim spat tobacco juice into the ripples. A bullfrog answered with a glugging croak. We'd tried everything from cut shad to my secret chicken liver rig, but the river kept its secrets.

At 2:17 AM, the line twitched like a nervous eyelid. Heart thumping louder than July cicadas, I let the fish run...five seconds...ten...until the rod arched violently. 'Holy mother of -!' Jim's curse drowned in the reel's screech. The flathead surged upstream, dragging my braided line across a submerged log. For three breathless minutes, I danced along the bank like a marionette, boots slurping in the muck.

When we finally netted the 42-pound behemoth, its barbeled mouth gaped in silent reproach. The glow stick's light died as we released her, leaving only starlight and the river's endless whisper.