With your eyes on the target, make a cast by swinging the rod tip forward and releasing your finger free of the trigger at around the 10 o’clock position.
Pete loved fishing, his wife Bunny, their daughter Liz, and of course his two grandkids but, as he aged
each day bemoaned some random, clandestine scaling on his skin,
twisting of his gut, ringing in his ear, twitching atop his skull, or yet some other ailment
elsewhere. Doctors could not diagnose these phantom glitches, could unearth no reason for Pete’s being,
say, short of breath—no lung cells squeezed tight as a trigger-cast line from an underspun reel, no
heart tortuous with say, aorta tangled in acute angles—no mess so convoluted it could never be unraveled.
One day, ticker at about the two o’clock position, Pete said to Bunny, You know, honey,
Think I feel like a steak. Yeah, steak sounds real good, and maybe a little spinach.
Her eyebrows rose, since of late, Pete had been extra-blue, reclusive, ate next to nothing. Okay, honey—
I’ll get you a steak, she acquiesced and, swiping on too-bright lipstick that bled past her mouth’s borders,
motored to Publix under Florida sun to see what looked fresh, while Pete trawled out his trustworthy
Smith & Wesson, and dialed the cops to report his impending death. Send a force
extra fast, Pete implored them, so when his wife returned home from scrutinizing each cut of crimson
lean meat for just enough marbling, she would not find her husband, alone, in his La-Z-Boy chair—
flesh and bone, bloody entrails, and a strong, oily odor.