|About the Book|
Rivers Edge - Five Outdoors Short StoriesThis collection contains five short stories each with an outdoors theme. Some are fishing, some are fiction and a couple are truth.--Finding Mountains“Jacob, we want you to come home.” She said, raising herMoreRivers Edge - Five Outdoors Short StoriesThis collection contains five short stories each with an outdoors theme. Some are fishing, some are fiction and a couple are truth.--Finding Mountains“Jacob, we want you to come home.” She said, raising her eyes to catch his glance. He looked down to his glass and shook his head.“Why not Jacob, Italy isn’t your home, Switzerland isn’t, Germany isn’t and France won’t be either.”“Neither was Afghanistan.” He replied looking her right in the eyes. “I’m not ready yet.” He said quietly.The waiter returned strutting his way through the crowd holding the wine glass above the other patrons heads. Jacob drew out a few euros and set them on the bar. The waiter grabbed one, smiled and walked back through the crowd.--The Fishin MagicianIve watched him fish since I was child and I still dont know his name. He saunters in along the sandstone banks peering into the rapids for Steelhead. He wears large, boxy, polarized glasses that are akin to something a geriatric wears on the freeway. He doesnt stop moving. His rod bobs over the rocks until he settles into a spot. It fits him like returning to a pillow in the middle of the night. Two casts. One fish. Release. Next spot.--Flamed Cane RodHe went to a dead mans house and found a lesson in a fly-rod that he never caught a fish with. When Williams neighbor Vincent passed away they had an estate sale. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but his brother Paul explained it to him as a rummage sale for dead people. He went and purchased two items. The first was a long, gaunt and flame darkened bamboo fly fishing rod holding a battered reel for $15. It came with an aluminum case and an oily cardboard box of things that he didn’t know. The second was a $3 set of diving flippers that proved to be a few years beyond the service life of rubber and cracked in half the first time he used them. But the fishing rod proved different altogether.--Rocky ShoreThe lake was restless to get on shore just as the paddler was restless to get onto the lake. Rollers came in heaved up from the deep offshore where the motion was concentrated, concerted and angry. The waves themselves held a grip of grey with a sandy center that rolled as they came into the shallows.The paddler stood on the sand and peered out towards the horizon. He stood awkwardly with a paddle in one hand, backpack in the other and a floppy neoprene skirt flapping in the wind. His jacket, a yellow anorak, was plastered to him on the windward side. A dull blue kayak lay in the sand, just out of the reach of the surf. An occasional breaker lifted the front end rocking it and drawing it towards the water.--Rain on the LimestoneSome fishing spots are made for outdoor magazines others for Sunday mornings. This was most definitely the Sunday morning sort of spot. The river was flanked by cedars that ran down into a snaggle of branches that abruptly turned into a yellowish-white limestone bank. The spring water mark could be seen about twenty yards up from where it wass now. A collection of dried reeds, seagull shit and foam bounced against the waterline and limestone. A few homes dotted the rivers edge, a manicured lawn against the mixed cedars added an air of oddness to the spot. Few things are as unsettling as fishing for trout with a Kentucky bluegrass golf green like lawn in front of you covered in childrens’ toys. It’s hard to get into the rhythm of things with a background like that.