When the River Glowed Catfish Blue

The sun was dipping behind cypress knees when my waders kissed the Mississippi mud. I always bring my grandfather's rusted thermos - it smells like coffee and lies about the 'big ones that got away'. Tonight the air tasted like thunderstorms that couldn't decide whether to cry or not.

'Try the stink bait,' suggested Old Tom from his anchored kayak, his voice bouncing across the chocolate milk water. But I went with glow-in-the-dark jig heads instead. Two hours. Three snags. One catfish smaller than my flip-flop.

Then the river blinked.

Not lightning - something blue pulsed beneath the surface. My line started dancing before I felt the tug. The rod bent double, drag screaming like a banshee with a burnt tongue. 'That's no catfish!' Tom yelled as silver scales breached, glowing like drowned moonlight.

When the 27-inch blue finally slid onto the bank, its bioluminescent markings faded like dying neon. We stared at the strange beauty until raindrops began tattooing the water. 'Should've used chicken livers,' Tom muttered. But the thermos coffee suddenly tasted like victory.