Green and turbulent, the wetness inched up over the embankment. With every millimeter gained, gills strained upward from their murky depths to witness the breach. Oh, the days had been counted!
Scratched henpecks of tally marks encrusted with growth, forcibly held under, were tortured and void of air. But no longer! Disembodied voices bayed and screeched in a night drowned with wakes and hurled emotion. As daylight awakened, a little boy hollered out.
"I caught a biggun Dad!"
But the patent black shoes
on his hook, now, a mossy green, were too heavy to reel to shore. They were still attached to someone's feet.
Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.