This is a short story I wrote about 2 years ago. This is my first short story post in a while. Please comment on it as my skills have grown rusty and my craft is ever elusive these days.
In a Montana Sort of Way
Eight years old we rolled in an old Chevrolet, seated in the bed because I told my friend’s dad that all Rush lacked was a good drummer. Yes, he played the drums and didn’t find the comment funny, but did we care? We were on our way to Montana to fish the Beaverhead River. We could dream in the shell-protected bed of our Shangri-La, trout the size of arms, without needing a radio or passenger window to remind us of our whereabouts. Besides, what did the dark hold? Could it tell us anymore about the river than we could imagine in our green minds. Dreams told us what we had concluded in waking hours. The passing stars told us more than my friend’s dad could tell us about aggressive rainbow trout, large browns at the bottom of subaqueous holes, 27 inch cutthroats near the outlet of the Clark Canyon Dam. We knew what we needed, what we wanted, and to think some grown man could add to our zeal would have been foolishness on our part.
We got all we bargained for and more. As inexperienced fly fishermen, we caught anything between 18 and 21 inch fish, and have pictures to prove our fishing tales. But, the big ones, the wily buggers, those always got off. Broke our line with a jump, snagged us on submerged tree limb, or just ran too far and too fast for us to get them in before they achieved their freedom. That’s what kept us coming back. We needed 24 inches or more. We were comfortable with our phalluses, and this quest couldn’t be termed as little man syndrome, especially since my best friend was like 150 lbs at eight years old, and if genes can be calculations of future measurements, I knew this kid would be a beast. And he was.