“Mom? Dad?” She called out in to the empty house. The only sounds she could hear were the window that had rattled in the wind since she was a little girl and her own breathing. This was why she had left the country. The quiet was eerie. She needed the sounds of the city. Fire engines, people shouting, honking cars. Anything to quiet the voices in her head.
So he took me fishing. Fishing? I mean, for a first date you would expect something more.. Something.. I don’t know. I was completely out of my comfort zone, no one had ever pulled that on me before. But the funny thing is, that it worked. So many years now, and all we did was to go fishing.
I never had the chance to go fishing with my friends. The thought of waiting for a fish to be caught on the fishing line is not my way of enjoyment. Sure the smiles and excitement on my friends face speaks loudly of an affair that is contagious.
The man started to fish. When he started, he had no idea, nor whether the rod in his hands would yield any fish. All he knew was that when the time was right, when the weather turned and the stream flowed, the fish would come.
Even if he was only holding a stick with a worm on it.
“Keep a civil tongue in that pointed little head of yours, Naveen, and stop pestering me for details we both know I won’t provide. Besides, you know I hate fishing,”
“Fishing, dear lady? Why must I be in search of anything besides the pleasure of your company?”
“Because you’ve barely spoken six words to me in the ten years we’ve known each other and I see no reason, barring the sudden appearance of my very eligible, very beautiful, and very RICH cousin, for you to start now,”
He was fishing for a compliment and it was painfully obvious. She decided to ignore him and kept her eyes on her drink, smirking at her reflection. She wondered how long he was going to keep this up. Every year it was the same thing. He’d get so drunk he could hardly stay on his stool, and he would lean into the table as if it had its own magnetic pull. She would root herself in the seat next to him, uneasy leaving him alone. He was such an idiot when he was drunk, so trusting, so sluggish. Her guard duty had started the first year she met him when she had scraped him off of the floor one particularly hard new years day only to find his wallet missing and his jacket torn. She hated parties anyway and from then on she had always had a great excuse to hide in the corner and watch her predictable friend drink himself stupid.
I really don’t like fishing.
At least not nowadays,
my mind runs too fast for the flippant
long-long
drawn out days in a boat.
But maybe some day
I will relax
and have the chance
to finally enjoy some fishing.
The fish swam happily through the water. All was calm and tranquil. Suddenly a hook popped up infront of it.
“Sweet, food.” The fish thought (if it could think at all.) the fish swam up to it and grabbed it in its mouth. Sharp pain flooded through the dishes mouth. It tried to swim away but it couldn’t. The fish was yanked harshly upwards.
Grinning from ear to ear, his small hands slowly reeled in his catch. As he pulled the little sunfish out of the water he presented it to me proudly and I took it from him, full of praises. From the end of the dock I could see his father watching us, smiling.
Sitting on the water, casting in the line. Waiting for the tug to show me that tonight we would eat. Tonight I won’t have to listen to the rumbling of my baby brother’s stomach as he
go fishing in a big deep blue with a hundred yellow bubbles and blue splashing paint streaks and swims and pull down mu throat and spill me out over the rails and pink smells put me on a board go fishing back in sweet blue water
Fishing is presumed to be a relaxing sport, though really, it reminds me of a bunch of old white guys in Hawaiian t-shirts looking for an excuse to sleep. I’ve only fished once, however, and caught a cold because of it, so maybe I need to wait until I’m in my sixties to get the relaxation effect.
Fishing. I’ve never done it before. But I hope I can go fishing one day. On the other hand, I have no intentions of fishing for the sake of eating exotic fish. I’ll photograph the fish and send it back to its home. I don’t have to eat them.
The art of fishing is both morally and physically demanding. It gives the power of the rod’s holder to take the life of a living creature whom is he or she is a stranger to.
he asked her to show him the fire thing again. she felt that he was fishing for something she wasn’t sure she could give. why was he suddenly so interested in her ability to snap her fingers and produce fire?
Fishing is supposed to be boring, to be a nasty boring sport, one that’s there just to create a bond between fathers and sons in North America. Where else? I don’t like fish. I don’t like fishing. Let them swim wherever they want i say, and leave the bloody earth and air to me.
I went fishing on a lake
with Jake because he’s my mate
we used to date
and he smells great
why must I always wait
these fish wont take my bait
maybe its because of jake.
He drew back his arm, and then let loose. The makeshift hook and string tied to a stick seemed as if it would hold up. That is, until a fish actually took interest in it. Once he felt a tug on the line and attempted to backpedal enough to get the fish from the water, the string untied.
I went fishing with my father yestrerday. Maybe it’s the fact that our boat lost control or that a heavy6 storm came in, but it was definately a terrible expereince. I know I need to learn new things but
As I walked out of the cave, bronze tears streaked down my cheeks and into the salty sea. I watched the liquid metal swirl around and dissipate into the ocean, and I wished I could do the same. My chest felt like it was still of bronze as I left her stranded in the cave, where I literally poured my immobility into her palm. My stomach nervously wrung itself into loops and I braced myself for the dive. I walked further and further into the shallow ocean but the water fluctuated between my waist and my neck, never venturing higher or lower. I walked miles and miles through the choppy, unnatural sea until I finally felt a soft pressure on the small of my back. I began to ran, sprint through the rushing white. Fishing for my knife in my pocket, I expanded my chest with oxygen and I plunged into the water and tore through the woven sand underneath my feet. And then I was on the other side, and I was swimming, thrashing to get to the surface. As I broke through the churning tides, I filled my body with the water droplets woven into the air and I was finally enough.
I used to fish with a cane pole. I recall catching a rather large bass on the damn of a small pond. I only remember this as I really didn’t care one way or another about fishing, I was worried that I would get in trouble if I lost my cane pole, and that was not going to happen.
I used to fish w a cane pole. i once caught a really big bass on the damn of a smal pond. I almost lost the cane pole I recall, fighting with that bass. I was not staying with my mother bc now I know her hubby had us taken from her, but with family friends.
She kept asking different questions hoping Jamie would slip up. She never did. How was it that she was so consistent? This boded well for them. They knew the police would be coming soon. Their stories had to be straight. Their stories had to be believable. This was their last chance.
She wanted to go fishing. He wanted to stay inside. She wanted to engage in a lengthy talk, but his little brain was too fried. She wanted to count the stars at night and have the constellations memorized. He wanted to keep to his games and his booze while the red swelled up in his eyes.
I’m fishing for any sort of meaning I can find here. It seems like I haven’t written in years, and I fear that the part of my brain responsible for any sort of creative storytelling has completely atrophied. What I am doing now is so simple. It’s just a report of what’s happening in my brain: my current fears, my current annoyances. I have created nothing. I’m fishing for the few thoughts in my head that are organized enough to coherently exist, let alone bite.
I really LOVE FISHING! The last time I fished (before the 5 seconds I was given this summer) was when I was about 6 years old. It was up at my dad’s work friend’s cottage. I can’t remember where the cottage was, but it was up north in Ontario somewhere. Anyway, my sister and I fished off the dock and out of the gentleman’s boat…I wish I could do more fishing!
Ohara led Dave into the office as he spoke. “To be honest, I thought we were fishing for a needle in a haystack, but it seems your daughter is a very clever little girl.” He stopped in his tracks for just a second when he realised how awful his mixed metaphor had been, but pressed on. “It appears she has been trying to contact you. And we now know where she is.”
The last time I went fishing I was thirteen years old and I didn’t even know how to bait the hook. It didn’t matter, really, because Thomas knew everything there is to know about fishing. I could just blindly follow his motions and chances were good I’d hook at least a small fish.
You should have heard my dad when I told him I didn’t want to go fishing. That it was cruel to dangle a living creature from a hook, that it didn’t matter if we let it go. His reaction might have been funny if he hadn’t followed the screaming with the belt.
“No son of mine is a fucking faggot!” he screamed, veins popping out of his neck. The metal of the belt made contact with my neck. I wish I could be like him, wish I could like fishing. But I’m not. So I wish I could keep my mouth shut.
I cast the line out, watching as it whizzes and zings through the empty air before falling gracefully into the water with a little plop! The air is quiet and cool and peaceful. It feels like this morning could stretch forever.
It is peaceful here, so much moreso than the hectic life of home with all the chaos of family and living.
I could stay here all day, but once the sun comes up and burns off the worst of the mist I know I’ll go home.
“Mom? Dad?” She called out in to the empty house. The only sounds she could hear were the window that had rattled in the wind since she was a little girl and her own breathing. This was why she had left the country. The quiet was eerie. She needed the sounds of the city. Fire engines, people shouting, honking cars. Anything to quiet the voices in her head.
reflections breaking refracting
the light off the surface of the pond
what is beneath
one can only wonder
beyond a hope and a doubt
So he took me fishing. Fishing? I mean, for a first date you would expect something more.. Something.. I don’t know. I was completely out of my comfort zone, no one had ever pulled that on me before. But the funny thing is, that it worked. So many years now, and all we did was to go fishing.
I never had the chance to go fishing with my friends. The thought of waiting for a fish to be caught on the fishing line is not my way of enjoyment. Sure the smiles and excitement on my friends face speaks loudly of an affair that is contagious.
The man started to fish. When he started, he had no idea, nor whether the rod in his hands would yield any fish. All he knew was that when the time was right, when the weather turned and the stream flowed, the fish would come.
Even if he was only holding a stick with a worm on it.
“Keep a civil tongue in that pointed little head of yours, Naveen, and stop pestering me for details we both know I won’t provide. Besides, you know I hate fishing,”
“Fishing, dear lady? Why must I be in search of anything besides the pleasure of your company?”
“Because you’ve barely spoken six words to me in the ten years we’ve known each other and I see no reason, barring the sudden appearance of my very eligible, very beautiful, and very RICH cousin, for you to start now,”
He was fishing for a compliment and it was painfully obvious. She decided to ignore him and kept her eyes on her drink, smirking at her reflection. She wondered how long he was going to keep this up. Every year it was the same thing. He’d get so drunk he could hardly stay on his stool, and he would lean into the table as if it had its own magnetic pull. She would root herself in the seat next to him, uneasy leaving him alone. He was such an idiot when he was drunk, so trusting, so sluggish. Her guard duty had started the first year she met him when she had scraped him off of the floor one particularly hard new years day only to find his wallet missing and his jacket torn. She hated parties anyway and from then on she had always had a great excuse to hide in the corner and watch her predictable friend drink himself stupid.
I really don’t like fishing.
At least not nowadays,
my mind runs too fast for the flippant
long-long
drawn out days in a boat.
But maybe some day
I will relax
and have the chance
to finally enjoy some fishing.
The fish swam happily through the water. All was calm and tranquil. Suddenly a hook popped up infront of it.
“Sweet, food.” The fish thought (if it could think at all.) the fish swam up to it and grabbed it in its mouth. Sharp pain flooded through the dishes mouth. It tried to swim away but it couldn’t. The fish was yanked harshly upwards.
I’m fishing for support. I know I am, but I don’t care, because, at the same time, I need it.
I think I just need it.
I just hope I don’t condition myself to the point where I think I’ll always need it.
I usually like to go to leak and fishing for few hours at weekends.
Never gone FISHING
I like salmon with no bones
Prepared at the store
I cleaned a fish once
Someone else had caught the cod
Wouldn’t eat the head
Grinning from ear to ear, his small hands slowly reeled in his catch. As he pulled the little sunfish out of the water he presented it to me proudly and I took it from him, full of praises. From the end of the dock I could see his father watching us, smiling.
Sitting on the water, casting in the line. Waiting for the tug to show me that tonight we would eat. Tonight I won’t have to listen to the rumbling of my baby brother’s stomach as he
go fishing in a big deep blue with a hundred yellow bubbles and blue splashing paint streaks and swims and pull down mu throat and spill me out over the rails and pink smells put me on a board go fishing back in sweet blue water
Fishing is presumed to be a relaxing sport, though really, it reminds me of a bunch of old white guys in Hawaiian t-shirts looking for an excuse to sleep. I’ve only fished once, however, and caught a cold because of it, so maybe I need to wait until I’m in my sixties to get the relaxation effect.
Fishing. I’ve never done it before. But I hope I can go fishing one day. On the other hand, I have no intentions of fishing for the sake of eating exotic fish. I’ll photograph the fish and send it back to its home. I don’t have to eat them.
I’m not really sure what this website is or if I even am doing it right
The art of fishing is both morally and physically demanding. It gives the power of the rod’s holder to take the life of a living creature whom is he or she is a stranger to.
he asked her to show him the fire thing again. she felt that he was fishing for something she wasn’t sure she could give. why was he suddenly so interested in her ability to snap her fingers and produce fire?
Fishing is supposed to be boring, to be a nasty boring sport, one that’s there just to create a bond between fathers and sons in North America. Where else? I don’t like fish. I don’t like fishing. Let them swim wherever they want i say, and leave the bloody earth and air to me.
I went fishing on a lake
with Jake because he’s my mate
we used to date
and he smells great
why must I always wait
these fish wont take my bait
maybe its because of jake.
i don’t like fishing
it is really shit
I just wanna spit
my ryms on you homies
get ccrunk with MY homies
peach word
Fishing at a lake in the mountains
Lake Como, at Blanca Peak
No fish to be seen
Cast in the line
Reel ’em in
Repeat.
Fishing,
when you can kill something and also relax at the same time.
family, quiet, nice, friends, peace
a way to feel as if nothing is wrong
how you get away from your problems for even a minute
water, family, friends, peace, quiet
like nothing is wrong with the world
a way to get away from your problems for a while
He drew back his arm, and then let loose. The makeshift hook and string tied to a stick seemed as if it would hold up. That is, until a fish actually took interest in it. Once he felt a tug on the line and attempted to backpedal enough to get the fish from the water, the string untied.
I went fishing with my father yestrerday. Maybe it’s the fact that our boat lost control or that a heavy6 storm came in, but it was definately a terrible expereince. I know I need to learn new things but
As I walked out of the cave, bronze tears streaked down my cheeks and into the salty sea. I watched the liquid metal swirl around and dissipate into the ocean, and I wished I could do the same. My chest felt like it was still of bronze as I left her stranded in the cave, where I literally poured my immobility into her palm. My stomach nervously wrung itself into loops and I braced myself for the dive. I walked further and further into the shallow ocean but the water fluctuated between my waist and my neck, never venturing higher or lower. I walked miles and miles through the choppy, unnatural sea until I finally felt a soft pressure on the small of my back. I began to ran, sprint through the rushing white. Fishing for my knife in my pocket, I expanded my chest with oxygen and I plunged into the water and tore through the woven sand underneath my feet. And then I was on the other side, and I was swimming, thrashing to get to the surface. As I broke through the churning tides, I filled my body with the water droplets woven into the air and I was finally enough.
I used to fish with a cane pole. I recall catching a rather large bass on the damn of a small pond. I only remember this as I really didn’t care one way or another about fishing, I was worried that I would get in trouble if I lost my cane pole, and that was not going to happen.
I used to fish w a cane pole. i once caught a really big bass on the damn of a smal pond. I almost lost the cane pole I recall, fighting with that bass. I was not staying with my mother bc now I know her hubby had us taken from her, but with family friends.
She kept asking different questions hoping Jamie would slip up. She never did. How was it that she was so consistent? This boded well for them. They knew the police would be coming soon. Their stories had to be straight. Their stories had to be believable. This was their last chance.
She wanted to go fishing. He wanted to stay inside. She wanted to engage in a lengthy talk, but his little brain was too fried. She wanted to count the stars at night and have the constellations memorized. He wanted to keep to his games and his booze while the red swelled up in his eyes.
I’m fishing for any sort of meaning I can find here. It seems like I haven’t written in years, and I fear that the part of my brain responsible for any sort of creative storytelling has completely atrophied. What I am doing now is so simple. It’s just a report of what’s happening in my brain: my current fears, my current annoyances. I have created nothing. I’m fishing for the few thoughts in my head that are organized enough to coherently exist, let alone bite.
I really LOVE FISHING! The last time I fished (before the 5 seconds I was given this summer) was when I was about 6 years old. It was up at my dad’s work friend’s cottage. I can’t remember where the cottage was, but it was up north in Ontario somewhere. Anyway, my sister and I fished off the dock and out of the gentleman’s boat…I wish I could do more fishing!
Ohara led Dave into the office as he spoke. “To be honest, I thought we were fishing for a needle in a haystack, but it seems your daughter is a very clever little girl.” He stopped in his tracks for just a second when he realised how awful his mixed metaphor had been, but pressed on. “It appears she has been trying to contact you. And we now know where she is.”
The last time I went fishing I was thirteen years old and I didn’t even know how to bait the hook. It didn’t matter, really, because Thomas knew everything there is to know about fishing. I could just blindly follow his motions and chances were good I’d hook at least a small fish.
You should have heard my dad when I told him I didn’t want to go fishing. That it was cruel to dangle a living creature from a hook, that it didn’t matter if we let it go. His reaction might have been funny if he hadn’t followed the screaming with the belt.
“No son of mine is a fucking faggot!” he screamed, veins popping out of his neck. The metal of the belt made contact with my neck. I wish I could be like him, wish I could like fishing. But I’m not. So I wish I could keep my mouth shut.
I cast the line out, watching as it whizzes and zings through the empty air before falling gracefully into the water with a little plop! The air is quiet and cool and peaceful. It feels like this morning could stretch forever.
It is peaceful here, so much moreso than the hectic life of home with all the chaos of family and living.
I could stay here all day, but once the sun comes up and burns off the worst of the mist I know I’ll go home.