How I Got Off Flyfishing

We often get errata from those who send their subscription commands to the list instead of the listserv. Often these requests are poorly spelled and amount to someone requesting that 1200 subscribers help them 'unsuscrib flyfish'. But one perfectly spelled request came down the pike in '97 asking "how to get off flyfishing". The response was immediate and merciless.

This served as the theme for our '97 Fiction Contest. Winners are posted on the FF@ Home Page.

From: John W. James
Subject: Because No Haiku is Too Bad to Publish...

Regarding FF
Is there a way to get off?
Don't know - I went blind.

From: Richard Frank
Subject: Get off FF - poem

I want to get off flyfishing
My mamma says "No, no!"
"It's better handled privately
And this you ought to know."

"But MOM," I cried
"I can't get off
on bait or on a lure
I've tried lacrosse and horseshoe toss
And now I am quite sure

I want to get off flyfishing
The others won't suffice
And in my room I find such gloom
Outdoor would be real nice!"

She shook her head,
And then she said,
"So go, but be forewarned
Your dad got off most every day,
You're lucky you were born."

From: Chris Knight
Subject: How I Got Off Flyfishing

I guess you all knew this would happen sooner or later:

Cast of seduction
green, red, silver flash in sun
Slurp. "God save the Queen!"

Beautiful torment
lashed, beaten, knuckles bleeding
No? Yes? Take me now!

upstream, downstream, pause.
jumps show me her adipose
I bear down with rod

She strips line madly
body-pierced beauty swimming
with wild abandon

At last relenting.
on my knees I reach for her
my fly battered, slimed

Cradled in my hands
spent, but not for long. Tail waves.
breath caught, she heads home

I light a cigar
And step from the stream, content.
She gets the wet spot

From: Claude Freaner
Subject: What, No (bad) Poetry?

Ok, Danny, here's another:

"Oh, Honey," my wife says at night,
Oh, heck! I think, getting uptight.
She wants me to hear
I drink too much beer;
Shucks, I don't want to have a fight!

She says coyly, "Please come up here."
"I have something to show you, dear."
Prob'ly another bit
About why I should quit,
Making my own homemade dark beer.

Downloading only a few more,
Not wanting to open the door,
I have unread emails:
Trip reports and tall tales!
A whole lot of flyfishing lore!

"Oh, Honey, where are you?" she cries,
As I write of no-hackle dries.
"I really need you,"
"Oh, yes! Please! I do!"
Meanwhile, I write two more half-lies.

Finally, I just quit anguishing,
Over Bahamas bonefishing.
My wife's lack of nightgown,
Quickly erased my frown.
So, that's how I got off Flyfishing!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction for Danny's contest, and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead, but was told to me by a stranger in a bar late one night...Oh, yeah - and you can blame it all on Warthog Ale, product of Alberta! (I ran out of homebrew!)

From: JACK BRANDT
Subject: poetry entry fiction contest

HERE is my entry for the "How I Got Off FLyfishing" fiction contest

One morning finishing up the graveyard shift at the mill I decided to head to the creek and give my custom handled rod a try.......

45 minutes on the water and nothing but wetter,
I was done with cork I knew as I liked this much better.
All that was left was to see, how it played with a fish,
that I should know this morning, that was my wish.

Up and down all the prime time water I stalked,
seen a few 'bows but at my offerings they balked.
In this section I knew there were fish galore,
as of this morning seemed they were feeding no more.

Then I spotted her by the cut under the bank,
so well protected , I would have needed a tank.
Time to try the touch on my brand-new rod,
intent not to spook, closer to her, I carefully trod.

After a few good drifts with a well tied dry,
no chance today I thought and let out a sigh.
Then a side roll she did, with that came a good thought,
"she's a nympher", I said, into the box to see what I had brought.

A gold-ribbed job, this one will do real nice,
tied before work last night it was fresh form the vise.
As I cinched the clinch, it was apparent to me,
that this and the brownie were just meant to be.

She sipped it in the first chance that she got,
the temp was the same, but, I was suddenly hot.
Head down she went, to keep the fur from tickling her face,
she kept that head moving at such a fast and furious pace.

Working the rod to keep all under control,
a short while later the excitement had taken its toll.
I had to break her off, as I silently cursed,
a joy it had been, but in my hand my-----Wurst had just burst!!

JACK BRANDT
MAR-12-97

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Material reprinted with the expressed consent and misgivings of the original authors.