Nothing
Cullen Kuhn
Down the short, leaf-littered walkway they walk, toward the dock. A morning mist rises off the water like steam. Jim has been fishing at this spot with his Dad as long as he could remember. The boat looked clean as ever. They headed out and found their spot.
“Jim, fetch me wanna them lures outta the tackle box,” his father said.
“No problem, Pop. Just gimme a minute while I fix up my own line,” said Jim.
They threw out their lines for a few hours with no luck. Both began to feel some frustration, as this spot always gave them luck. Suddenly, Jim’s line bent into a semi-circle.
“Got somethin’ bud?” his father said.
“I think I do, my line ain’t budgin’,” said Jim.
“Well, keep reelin that sucker in, and we’ll have a nice dinner tonight!”
Jim must have been reeling for an hour, but he made no progress. He reeled then waited, and his father jumped in for a few shifts, as well.
“Dad, jump in here! My arms feel like jello!”
Beads of sweat cascading down their foreheads, they took a rest and put the rod in the holster. The tension suddenly released. The line had snapped.
“Must’ve been caught on a rock,” said Jim.
They returned home to their meager lake house and enjoyed dinner they bought from the local market.