Walking on Water, Fly Rod in Hand

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Photo credit: Ted Strutz

Walking on Water, Fly Rod in Hand
by T. Delaplain

“It’s all in the wrist, Trace.” My Dad’s line whipped behind him, slowly returned and walked across the calm water in a lazy “S”. I swore as my tangled fly drove its hook into my thumb.

“Try again, it’ll come.” He handed me his tattered creel. This relic of his youth held all his truths. They had shared the silent hours of meditation, the lonely farewells to his fishing buddies and the rapture of just being.

The fly rod, his staff.
The river, his bible.
The mountain, his chapel.

I recast with perfect pitch and rhythm.

Today’s sermon,”patience”.

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Some stories write themselves. A voice takes you along for the ride and you write. My Dad was a grand story teller and his advice was always given by example. This is his story. He had no use for churches but had an incredible reverence for our natural world and wild spaces. There was never a problem that couldn’t be solved with a fishing rod in hand. He believed that the best stories are about the one that got away, that the water always flows under the bridge so there’s no time for regrets and there’s always another opportunity around the bend. He believed in feeding any neighbor in need and often fished with that in mind. He had endless patience when teaching me how to fish or do long division. I still look to him for answers and sometimes those answers come in strange 100 word packages.

Take a seat in the chair and write a 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers.

The Way to My Heart

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Photo by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Way to My Heart

“Shut the damn door and take off those muddy boots,” I shouted over the kitchen chaos with an authority that had not been earned. The second batch of blackened biscuits lay crumbled next to my Momma’s recipe box and the bitter winter turnip stew was boiling over in defiance. I swiped a stray bang behind my ear and straightened the crisp apron your aunt had tucked into my hand as we’d left the chapel. You stomped the snow off your boots and tilted your Stetson, revealing a shy smile.

“Something smells mighty good, Wife.”

For more Friday Fictioneer’s tales go here.
Our lovely host Rochelle Wisoff-Fields will give you 100 words to round up your story. Rochelle’s third book was published last week. You can find all of her books here.

Hell Bent For Leather

Below is my work for Friday Fictioneers. I also wanted to share (brag about) my success in my first writing contest. I’m batting a 1000.

We’re thrilled to announce the winner of our Postcard From the Park Mini-MOLP writing contest.

Tracey Delaplain from Reno, Nevada has scooped the title with a brilliantly crafted piece that wove in a well researched slice of American history!

I won the Magic Oxygen mini literary prize for July with my flash fiction piece, “A Wild Idea“, a postcard from the park. You can see the announcement here where you can read about future challenges.

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Photo Credit @Sandra Crook

Hell Bent For Leather

The sharp tang of leather made her stomach churn. She tossed the unfinished chaps aside, a gift no longer needed. Her son’s dusty Stetson and new saddle lay where the cowboys had thrown them. A dram of whiskey had been offered and accepted. Their duty done, they had backed out of the house hats in hands, heads bowed, murmuring condolences.

Her grief now complete, both of her men lay buried beneath cow shit and broken dreams.

“The chaps could be shortened”, she thought, “and I reckon the steers won’t feed themselves.”

The prequel to today’s story is Whiskey For My Men http://wp.me/p4oHp4-Kk

Cowboy up! Go to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields site and join Friday Fictioneers. She’ll give you 100 words to round-up your story.