Tag Archives: fishing stories

Reeling in the fishermen

This week at the Carrot Ranch, Charli Mills challenged writers to In 99 words (no more, no less) write a fish tale. It can be about fishing from any angle, about those who fish, or what might be caught. Go where the prompt leads.

I cast my net hoping to catch an idea.

Would I share some fish-themed picture books? For example:

The Little Fish that Got Away by Bernadine Cook and Corbett Johnson

The Little Fish that Got Away, written by Bernadine Cook and illustrated by Crockett Johnson

one fish two fish by Dr Seuss

One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, by Dr. Seuss

The rainbow fish by Marcus Pfister

The Rainbow Fish, by Marcus Pfister

Would I consider rhyming words?

dish

fish

squish

swish

wish

fish on a dish rhyming words

Perhaps a childhood skipping game?

Fish, Fish,

Come into the dish.

Fish, Fish,

Turn around in the dish.

Fish, Fish,

Touch the bottom of the dish.

Fish Fish, run out of the dish.

Fish fish come into the dish skipping game

Fishy sayings?

something fishy going on around here

Sounds or smells fishy

A fish out of water

A dead fish handshake

Fell for it, hook, line and sinker

Plenty of fish in the ocean

Or maybe a childhood story?

When I was a child, my father fished a lot in his spare time. As well as being a cheap way of feeding his large family, he probably enjoyed getting out on the water in his rowboat for some peace. When the fishing was good, it could be on the menu twice a day, seven days a week. Exaggerations, maybe, but sometimes it seemed that way.

I did accompany him once. Neither of us caught anything edible. I caught a knotty eel, a tiny trumpeter and a desire to never go fishing again. I never have. Catching words is much more to my taste.

For my response to Charli’s prompt, I have gone with a story from my childhood. It incorporates some of the ideas that got caught in the net. I hope you like it.

Reeling in the fishermen

She sat by the window watching as the invisible painter coloured the morning sky. These moments lost in waking dreams, with the youngest of her brood suckling quietly, were precious. Slamming car doors and laughter interrupted the silence but not her thoughts. An occasional word invaded her consciousness…haul, fishing, catch. Wait—her man, a fisherman, was home. The night was not conducive to fishing. She leaned forward. Two dark figures unloaded a ute. They had neither lines nor nets, and it sure wasn’t fish in those boxes. “Fisherman, eh?” she thought as she dialled the local police. “You’re hooked.”

Thank you blog post

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