Wig44.
05-12-2009, 10:19 AM
This is the story that I wrote and submitted for original writing (English coursework) last year, it got high praise and an A* and my english teacher asked if I'd read Hemingway (which I haven't) but I wanted to see what people on here thought about it. I looked in here a bit recently and decided to see how this does, I was 14/15 when I wrote this. It's also short due to word limits in place on the coursework.
River
The grass, slightly frosty from the morning dew, crunched as I walked. It was like a predator, chewing the sinewy remains of some unlucky prey. The air was cool, crisp and almost still. The willow trees nearby were hunched over the river I was stood next to. They creaked in the slight breeze like the yawning of a waking animal.
I put down the tackle box I had brought, and it snapped open with two sharp cracks. It doubled as storage, dividing different baits, hooks, shots and floats as well as a chair to sit on when closed. To save time, and make the most of the early morning, I had prepared my fishing rod as much as possible before coming. The shots and float were already attached to the fishing line which had in turn already been threaded through the supports on the fishing rod, leaving me with the simple task of knotting together the prepared line in the rod with the small piece of line that was threaded through the hook. As I whipped the rod forwards and cast out, the hook caught the sunlight and flashed in my eyes, gleaming like a fierce metallic talon. As the hook and float hit the surface of the river, it seemed the water was undulating rather than rippling, like its inhabitants beneath the surface.
I leaned the rod on its stand and sat back on the tackle box. The morning was pristine and unspoilt. I listened to the morning sounds of the yawning trees and the cries of birds darting on some unknown errand. In the distance I heard voices. I turned and saw two figures. Even from that distance it was apparent that they were both very short. As they got closer I saw that one sported a potbelly while the other one was thin with very bad posture. They were both ruddy faced, and as they fished in the lake about thirty metres behind me they shouted hoarse profanities at each other with rural accents. I exhaled heavily, watching my breath dissipate in the once quiet air.
Fishing is a waiting game. You have periods where you won’t catch anything, but if you don’t pay any attention to your rod you could lose a bite and become frustrated. It’s not necessarily about catching anything; it’s about marvelling in nature’s sophistication and beauty. It’s character building and relaxing. When you do get a bite, the thrill overrides any boredom and you can find yourself battling with a fish for almost half an hour.
As I pondered whether these men were here to escape from their scowling wives or were here for the sport, I noticed my float jerk underwater in a rapid movement. I grabbed my fishing rod and waited a couple of seconds, instinctively, before striking, lifting my rod tip up in the air in one quick, fluid movement to lodge the hook into the fish’s lip. I reeled in slowly and confidently. I let it take some slack before reeling slightly back in again. The whole time I was in a predatory trance. I felt the fish falter with fatigue as I reeled it back in after a few minutes and seized my chance. I reeled in much further, slightly faster than I had before, and lifted my rod up high. Then with one hand I scooped up my net which I plunged into the river like a dagger and lifted the fish up and out of the water. It was beautiful. Not the common carp from this area, but a smaller fish called a rudd. Its colourful scales gleamed in the sun like a kaleidoscope. Though small, rudd are great sport and put up an excellent fight. I gently removed the hook from the fish before inspecting it for a few more moments, gauging its weight to be around a few pounds, before tenderly releasing it back into the water.
The morning was much brighter now. The world had woken up, and I cast out again and sat back on my tackle box, proud with my catch. The river swallowed my float and hook like a hungry beast, majestic but deadly.
River
The grass, slightly frosty from the morning dew, crunched as I walked. It was like a predator, chewing the sinewy remains of some unlucky prey. The air was cool, crisp and almost still. The willow trees nearby were hunched over the river I was stood next to. They creaked in the slight breeze like the yawning of a waking animal.
I put down the tackle box I had brought, and it snapped open with two sharp cracks. It doubled as storage, dividing different baits, hooks, shots and floats as well as a chair to sit on when closed. To save time, and make the most of the early morning, I had prepared my fishing rod as much as possible before coming. The shots and float were already attached to the fishing line which had in turn already been threaded through the supports on the fishing rod, leaving me with the simple task of knotting together the prepared line in the rod with the small piece of line that was threaded through the hook. As I whipped the rod forwards and cast out, the hook caught the sunlight and flashed in my eyes, gleaming like a fierce metallic talon. As the hook and float hit the surface of the river, it seemed the water was undulating rather than rippling, like its inhabitants beneath the surface.
I leaned the rod on its stand and sat back on the tackle box. The morning was pristine and unspoilt. I listened to the morning sounds of the yawning trees and the cries of birds darting on some unknown errand. In the distance I heard voices. I turned and saw two figures. Even from that distance it was apparent that they were both very short. As they got closer I saw that one sported a potbelly while the other one was thin with very bad posture. They were both ruddy faced, and as they fished in the lake about thirty metres behind me they shouted hoarse profanities at each other with rural accents. I exhaled heavily, watching my breath dissipate in the once quiet air.
Fishing is a waiting game. You have periods where you won’t catch anything, but if you don’t pay any attention to your rod you could lose a bite and become frustrated. It’s not necessarily about catching anything; it’s about marvelling in nature’s sophistication and beauty. It’s character building and relaxing. When you do get a bite, the thrill overrides any boredom and you can find yourself battling with a fish for almost half an hour.
As I pondered whether these men were here to escape from their scowling wives or were here for the sport, I noticed my float jerk underwater in a rapid movement. I grabbed my fishing rod and waited a couple of seconds, instinctively, before striking, lifting my rod tip up in the air in one quick, fluid movement to lodge the hook into the fish’s lip. I reeled in slowly and confidently. I let it take some slack before reeling slightly back in again. The whole time I was in a predatory trance. I felt the fish falter with fatigue as I reeled it back in after a few minutes and seized my chance. I reeled in much further, slightly faster than I had before, and lifted my rod up high. Then with one hand I scooped up my net which I plunged into the river like a dagger and lifted the fish up and out of the water. It was beautiful. Not the common carp from this area, but a smaller fish called a rudd. Its colourful scales gleamed in the sun like a kaleidoscope. Though small, rudd are great sport and put up an excellent fight. I gently removed the hook from the fish before inspecting it for a few more moments, gauging its weight to be around a few pounds, before tenderly releasing it back into the water.
The morning was much brighter now. The world had woken up, and I cast out again and sat back on my tackle box, proud with my catch. The river swallowed my float and hook like a hungry beast, majestic but deadly.