by Thomas Cooper
 art by Robinson Accola |
"Goddamn bluegills," says Smith, jigging his lure.
"It's called Bluegill Lake," says Jones. "Bluegill Lake."
"If I could bend over they'd swim right into my fingers. Bet I could kick them out of the goddamn water."
"Easy does it, Smith. Your face is purple."
"Got one of those Alaskan fishing brochures in the mail the other day. What do you say, Jones? You and me? Get our asses up there. Halibut. Tuna. Substantial fish."
They've had this conversation before and, if they're lucky, they'll have it again. Tomorrow, most likely, though that's a word they're careful about in deference to superstition.
"Possibility," says Jones. "Today, though, what the hell's wrong with bluegills?"
Smith scratches underneath his shirt at his Fentanyl patch. Jones hawks phlegm in the water, nips the vodka-spiked grapefruit juice from his flask. They wait with their poles poised over the water, at the end of Jones's line a lucky fly made from a lock of his late wife's hair. At the end of Smith's, a plug tufted with his dead dog's fur, a purebred Labrador of championship lineage.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2012 by its authors.
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Robinson Accola creates artwork for SmokeLong Quarterly as needed.
