Gone Fishing On Allen Creek and Ireland Creek Near Summerville, South Carolina– Short Story
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The morning mist clung to the whispering reeds of Allen Creek, a silver ribbon threading through the sun-dappled woods near Summerville. In a weathered jon boat, oars resting across the gunwales, sat Sarah, her eyes mirroring the tranquil jade green of the water. Unlike Silas by Fuller Swamp, Sarah wasn’t a seasoned angler seeking solitude. She was a city escapee, a novice chasing elusive peace amidst the chirping symphony of frogs and the gentle gurgling of the current.
Sarah’s first cast, clumsy yet hopeful, sent the lure flying in a wobbly arc, landing with a splashy plop. Silence. Minutes ticked by, marked only by the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Disappointment threatened to nip at her, but then, a tug. Not the sharp yank she’d imagined, but a subtle pull, like a hesitant whisper. Her heart leaped as she reeled in, anticipation building with each turn of the reel.
A sunfish, gleaming like a polished coin, broke the surface, its fins flashing defiance against the morning sky. Sarah’s heart swelled with a mixture of relief and joy. Not a trophy catch, but a victory nonetheless, a tiny warrior met with gentle praise and released back into the cool embrace of the creek.
As the sun climbed higher, bathing the water in a golden glow, Sarah cast her line on Ireland Creek, drawn by its quieter, almost secretive atmosphere. Here, the fish were smaller, more elusive. She snagged a bluegill, its scales shimmering like amethysts, and a darting crappie, its silver body a fleeting glint in the sunlight. Each catch, a silent conversation, a glimpse into the vibrant life hidden beneath the surface.
But for Sarah, the fishing was just a thread woven into the larger tapestry of the day. She watched a heron stalk the shallows, its spear-like beak poised for the perfect strike. She marveled at the intricate dance of dragonflies, their iridescent wings catching the sun like stained glass. The air, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, soothed her city-weary lungs.
The afternoon melted away, measured by the sun’s slow descent, the lazy pace of the current, and the quiet symphony of the creek. Hunger, at last, drew Sarah back to shore, her bucket holding not just a handful of fish, but a newfound sense of calm. As she packed up her gear, a sense of gratitude filled her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the words carried away by the gentle breeze. “Thank you for the quiet, the beauty, the reminder that there’s a world beyond the city walls, whispering its secrets to those who listen.”
Leaving the creeks behind, Sarah carried more than just the day’s catch. She carried a renewed sense of balance, a reminder that peace could be found not just in the stillness of the water, but in the beating heart of nature, hidden in plain sight, waiting for those who dared to listen. The creeks, in their quiet eloquence, had whispered their secrets, and Sarah, for one, had heard them loud and clear.
