Fishing
A drabble and a half
By Gumnut
31 Oct 2003

The line tweaked between his fingertips.

A hint of movement, of tension, of possible capture.

The still surface of the lake was disturbed, a single ripple echoing outwards from where the line met water.

The breeze was silenced, for a moment, a breath held, waiting.

The birds ceased their chatter, the trees sighing in the silence before those, too, were quiet, no wind to bend their boughs.

Anticipation.

The line tweaked again.

It shuddered, a submerged being taunting it, attempting to steal its prize and thwart it’s trap.

The rod bent.

Pulled.

But softly snapped back.

And the line was still once more.

The breath was released, the birds sang once again, the trees moaning softly in the wind.

And, oblivious to it all, Jack O’Neill slept on.

**********
FIN.