|The One That Got Away (standard:horror, 1145 words)|
|Author: Chris Craine||Added: Sep 08 2006||Views/Reads: 1842/1057||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|It's a helluva fish story!|
A gentle breeze blew across John's face as he cast his fishing line into the lake. It was a warm day. A cold beer and an occasional breeze on the other hand made it perfect. It had never been about the weather for John anyways. It was gentle serenity that flowed through him while alone on the lake. John had spent the last sixteen years working for the police department in Vegas. It was the kind of place filled with everything but serenity. He was a beat cop. A job he both loved and hated at the same time. One moment he could be saving a little girl from drowning in her backyard pool. The next moment he was answering a call just a mile down the road and finding a drunken father who had just beat his daughter to death. It was maddening. John kicked back in his lawn chair, reached into his cooler, and pulled out a cold beer. Today was not a day for such stressful thoughts. He cracked open his beer, drinking about half of it in the first swallow, then set it on top of the cooler. He grabbed his pole, cast the line out and did what his ancestors did. He fished. Over the next few hours John had received several bites, most of them coming from mosquito's. The only thing he seemed to be catching today was a beer buzz. John shrugged to himself. “Better than nothing,” He thought. He leaned his pole against a rock beside him, attached a bell to the line, stretched his arms out wide and let out a big yawn. He kicked his feet up on his cooler and tilted his ball cap down over his eyes. If he couldn't catch a fish maybe he could at least catch a nap. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes after John had fallen asleep when the tiny bell started to ring. John's eye's flew open. The pole dipped slightly and the bell gave another jingle. He reached for the pole carefully plucking the bell off the line, so as not to frighten away his potential dinner. There was another small tug followed by a sharp jerk. He yanked the line back quick and began to reel it in. It must have been a real whopper. The pole curved towards the water, threatening to snap. “C'mon you son of a bitch,” John said. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. He pulled up on the pole. He would be damned if he was going to let this one get away. Peace and quite might be his goal, but lets be serious you can get that in a dark closet at home. It was still about the fish. Click here to read the rest of this story (120 more lines)
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