Someone once asked my dad, “Pug, do you still go fishin’ as often as you used to?”
“No,” replied Dad, “I’ve cut back to once a day.”
I took Dad on his last fishing trip when he was 92. He died three years later.
I pray that I may live to fish until my dying day.
And when it comes to my last cast, I then most humbly pray;
When in the Lord’s great landing net and peacefully asleep
That in His mercy I’ll be judged good enough to keep.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the game warden who’ll be measuring our tall tales to see if they stay within the 100 word limit is Gertrude “Guppy” Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to participate in this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
Junior thumbed through the dog-eared pages of his Bass Pro Shop catalog.
“Nadine, I’m gonna order me one of these boats and take up bass fishin’.”
“Junior, its 250 miles to the nearest river or lake. You ain’t gonna catch no bass out here.”
“You just watch.”
A week later, Junior launched his boat in waist-deep Kansas prairie grass and began fishing.
“Caught anything yet?” Nadine called from the back porch.
“I knew you wouldn’t catch any bass out there.”
“Shut up, woman. And go back to your knittin’.”
“Junior, if I could swim, I’d come out there and kick your ass.”
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Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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