At long last I am back with Six Sentences. I will save the excuses. The prompt word from our gracious hostess Denise at GirlieOntheEdge is “grip”. While I have also been slack at Carrot Ranch, and this is way beyond the 99 words required there, this story is a nod to the August 5th prompt which is now closed and to the current prompt which is to “write a story, using cacophony“. I thank my prompters and also Marge who led me back to the page.
Kayaking was Marge’s doorway to more fishing spots; just a little launch area and a lake was all hers, no matter how many private camps and docks.
Maybe Marge shouldn’t have used her egress to be fishing off of a private dock, but she needed to stretch and it looked like a good spot and though she wasn’t a believer in all that unicorn crap, she took the presence of a child’s unicorn floatie on the end of the dock as a good sign.
A week day, the lake and its camps were quiet, the only sound the birds, squirrels and now the whir of Marge’s cast line and quick snap of the bail then her startled grunt of approval when right away she got a hard hit, the drag zzzzzzzzing as the line unspooled, the squelch of her soles on wet dock, the splash of bass bursting through sun-sparkled water and more grunts of pleasure as Marge determined she would bring in this fish, no matter what.
Her eyes on the line, Marge didn’t notice that she’d put one foot into the middle of the unicorn floatie there on that wet dock, then the other, all the while keeping the tension on the line and that bass going every which way, then a sudden jerk as it pulled against her and it was then that Marge slipped right off the dock, her feet ringed by the unicorn, and, when she plunged ringed-feet first into the water, she became firmly ringed around her ample middle, stuck in the floatie but still gripping her fishing rod, barely managing to set the drag tighter before losing her footing on the muddy bottom, the unicorn now getting towed across the small lake splishing and squeaking with it’s rider wrapped around it’s neck, still clutching the pole that connected them to the relentless bass.
Fortunately, when the bass finally tired Marge could plant her feet to stand and reel it in. She walked ashore with full shoes gurgling, an inflatable unicorn rubbering at her waist, trophy fish now in hand, and with a smile brighter than rainbow skittles.