Prose
1: "Near Lunacy" by Richard Frank
1: "Autumn Tales" by Fran Friesen
Aug. 29, 2018 I went to work as an assistant to Senator Ebenezer Hollingsworth just a few days after whispers about Trotters began to circulate through both houses of Congress. I paid them little mind at the time, of course, having been warned by my graduate school advisor that Washington was a rumor mill without equal, and that I should stick to the business of government if I wanted to attract the attention of those who could do me some good. In short, I was too young and too ambitious to give much credence to the idea that there might actually be a fishing lodge on Mars. I wasn’t the only one, of course. The Senator assured everyone in his office that Trotters was pure fiction. Probably the brainchild of some closet scientist in the EPA. He reminded us all that in 2006 similar rumors about golf courses on the dark side of the moon had been spread by a few disgruntled NASA employees shortly after the agency’s mission statement had been rewritten to conform to the 2004 draft of The People’s Covenant With God. Of course, the Senator also bragged to everyone within earshot, a considerable area, that he was unquestionably the best fly fisherman in the Congress and that if there were a fishing lodge on Mars, he was the logical choice to check it out. All expenses paid, of course. I must admit that at that moment I wasn’t terribly happy to be working for Ebenezer Hollingsworth - “Eb” to his friends. Despite his heroic public image, he made me uneasy. I was only 26, but I was well aware of Hollingsworth’s efforts on the Kansas School Board in the late 1990s, and of his successful national campaign to ban the teaching of evolution in all 51 states in 2003. There were detractors, of course, who claimed that Eb’s success was largely a matter of good timing. They claimed that his successful Think Creation overtures to Disney just happened to overlap Quentin Tarantino’s religious conversion and the subsequent release of his religious masterpiece Genesis II. In short there were those who claimed that it was only a matter of time until evolutionary theory, and then science itself, were banished from public consciousness. The world had grown weary of the postmodern and craved a return to a metaphysic of presence with God at its center. The public was willing to look into the abyss as long as a pleasant, reassuring God looked back. Perhaps there is something to that, but there are always detractors where powerful men are concerned, and I didn’t let their harsh words trouble me. No,my unhappiness was born of an unspecified inkling that the Senator’s future would not live up to past promise, and that my personal skiff of ambition would be scuttled before I had even learned to paddle it. September 14, 2018 Final confirmation. The Senator arrived at the office in the morning waving a full color brochure from Trotters’ Lodge and Fishing Camps at 70°S and 85°S Mars, 0220064-R766 . More to the point the Senator had already contacted the camp to make a reservation for himself and a companion and had been deeply disappointed to learn from Mr. Booth, the reservation clerk, that the camp was booked until March 2022. To say that the Senator was also deeply offended when they refused his offer to pay twice the daily lodge and guide rate of $82,000, plus 7% Galaxy tax, if they could just squeeze his party in would be a gross understatement. He was livid, and, following a few inflammatory sputterings about not knowing whom they were dealing with, the Senator slapped his now crumpled brochure down on the corner of my desk and stomped out of the room. In some ways the brochure resembled every other premium fishing lodge circular that I had ever seen. There were obligatory photographs of fly fishers holding long, heavy-bellied fish, and there were references to pristine waters flowing over golden rock and through canyons of deep pink and vermillion. The food was fabulous, of course, and the sleeping accommodations more than luxurious. Well, at $82,000 a day, not including transportation, one had a right to expect comfort premium service, and great fishing. In other ways, the brochure was very unusual. To begin with, Trotters was situated on a Martian polar cap and represented our first verifiable contact with beings on another planet. It was not at all what anyone I knew had expected. In addition, the photographs depicted landscapes, fishermen, and fish unlike any that we had ever seen. The water was thin and pale blue like the eyes of a Nordic Goddess, and the land was coldly stark, but powdered soft and dusky pink. The fish were truly enormous, heavy and colorful, and the fly fishers . . . well, they obviously represented anglers from the far reaches of the universe. The office staff couldn’t take their eyes off these beings from distant worlds, especially the tall, leggy, Mattelian woman who fished in 6" high platform hip boots. Given all of these wonders, I was most taken by the owners, guides, and staff of Trotters for they appeared to be nothing more nor less than large, pink pigs. So, there I was, deeply immersed in the photographs of the Trotters staff, when the Senator bounded back into the room and shouted, “Any of you ever fly fished?” I was so taken by the Trotters photos I flipped up my right hand before lifting my eyes or giving the potential implication of Eb’s words a second thought. “Good boy!” He shouted. “We’re off to Trotters in January.” “But how?” I stammered, sitting on my now closed fist. “You said . . . ” “I know, but I upped the ante, and they grabbed it, boy. They may be pigs, but they’re obviously good capitalist pigs!” January 2, 2019 Space travel was not what I expected, but, then, I expected to be wrapped in ace bandages, sealed in duct tape, and dropped into a large plastic bag before being flash frozen. What actually happened was much worse. For one thing, I was forced to spend three weeks listening to Eb Hollingsworth regale passengers and crew with uninterrupted tales of political maneuvering and intrigue in which he always emerged victorious. When Eb tired of politics, he turned to his other love. Fishing. According to the Senator, fly fishing in the United States, if not the world, originated in Kansas, and its creator was the right Rev. Lucas Allwight who was, in turn, none other than the Senator’s great, great, great-grandfather. I think I have the right number of “greats” there. So, the Senator, asserted that fly fishing was in his blood. There wasn’t a notable river he hadn’t fished, nor a worthy fish he hadn’t caught when he set out to do so. It wasn’t, he acknowledged humbly and frequently, a matter of evolutionary superiority as the heathens of the 20th century had claimed, but a natural superiority bestowed upon human beings by God. Of course, Eb also acknowledged that God had been especially good to him and his kin, and that he thanked the Lord every day for His great gift. By the time we reached the Martian surface, I was deeply worried that I must have greatly offended God in some way because He had felt compelled to assign me to the staff of Ebenezer Hollingsworth and then penned me up with him for 23 interminable days. Since I shared a cabin with the Senator, there were only two places where I could escape his sonorous pontificating. The obvious place provided brief, well-spaced moments of relief during the day, but the ship’s library was my true refuge. The Senator didn’t read. The ship had a well-equipped e- library that could access any text that I wanted on earth as well as a link to Trotters where I could learn more about the lodge and its history. One of the first things I learned was that Trotters’ owners had almost initiated contact with Earth in 1999 when a crude polar lander tumbled onto their tool shed, smashing its pink tiled roof into a thousand slivers. The planned contact was not to offer Lodge service to the earthlings but to notify the United States of the whereabouts of the lander and to seek reparation for the shattered roof. Trotters’ owners, Phip and Berd Ernk, quickly abandoned their plan, however, when they did a little research into our culture and history. They shrewdly decided that any contact with the United States would result in a countersuit, an invasion, and the lost of their Lodge and holdings. Given the treatment of Native Americans it was easy for the Ernks to imagine themselves confined to a worthless sty on Uranus. The Ernks resolved to keep the lander as a conversation piece, and, so, they mounted it in the center of a large circular pool in front of the lodge and turned it into a waterfall sculpture. As the days passed, I became more interested in the polar waters themselves. It seems that Mars is possessed of a vast aquifer that resides well below the planet’s crust in most areas, but comes to within a few feet of the surface at the southern pole. The Ernks rooted this out by chance when they were gathering samples of the fine powdered surface dust during a quadrant survey of uninhabited planets. They returned to Mars a few years later and did the excavations that created Mars’ only surface waterways. Their first effort was something of a bust. They tapped into a warm spring that even the polar climate couldn’t cool. The result was a large body of warm water which they promptly named Lake Hogwash. Subsequent efforts were more successful, resulting in the creation of two small rivers, the Truffle and the Snout. These streams conveniently combined and formed the Trough which flows for 23 miles before disappearing into a deep rift. It is the Trough that is justly the most famous river in the galaxy, but that was not always the case. Obviously, it is one thing to open a bit of earth and let loose some water and quite another to create a great fishing venue. The Ernks return to their home planet of Chauvan where they labored for three years to acquire the financial and technical backing to create their lodge. Then they spent another six years acquiring all the aquatic life that they would need to create a fly-fishing paradise, including the Dresilian Zwarg - the gamest, game fish in the galaxy. When they returned to Mars, an advance team had prepared the polar climate for habitation, and the lodge itself had been built. The waters were then prepared and stocked. It took six additional years before the insects, plants and fish were firmly established. During those years, the Ernks diligently publicized their work and prepared the galaxy for the grand opening of Trotters Lodge and Fishing Camps. As I’ve already said, my library retreat kept me sane through the 3-week voyage. It also prepared me for what I was about to encounter. When our ship touched down on the Martian surface, I walked out into clear Martian day eager to meet the brothers Ernk and to admire their work, knowing how much intelligence, vision and pig headedness it had taken to create Trotters Lodge and Fishing Camps. January 4, 2019 During the last few hours of our flight, I briefed the Senator on all that I had gleaned about Trotters, omitting only the information about the polar lander. The Senator was pleased to learn that Trotters owners and staff were from a planet outside the solar system, and he dictated a quick note to his memo monitor. The reason for the Senator’s interest became abundantly clear to me when we met Phip and Berd Ernk near the landing pad. They greeted us warmly. “Welcome to Trotters Senator Hollingsworth. We hope you enjoy your stay with us and that you won’t hesitate to ask us for anything that you might need.” Phip said holding a hoof out to the Senator. The Senator smiled his warmest forced smile and shook Phip’s hoof. He replied, “Thank you Mr. Ernk. It’s a great pleasure to be here. And, let me be the first Earthling to welcome you to our Solar system.” If the Ernks understood the full implications of the Senator’s words, they didn’t let on. They both laughed as though the Senator had made a good joke and went immediately to the business of getting us settled in the lodge and prepared for our first outing. I don’t know if it was at that moment or shortly afterwards that I came to fully understand the nature of the Senator’s vacation. He was, in effect, doing nothing less than scouting Trotters to see if it posed a threat to the Earth and to assess its potential economic value should the U.S. decide to invade. That was the only way to explain how Eb got his reservation. He must have offered an extravagant sum that neither he nor his backers could have afforded. The Senator was on an official mission. My insight deeply troubled me, and I considered alerting the Ernks to the potential danger; but I thought better of it when I considered that I really knew nothing about the Ernks. Perhaps they did pose a threat, and there was always the chance that the Senator would get wind of my betrayal. That would put a quick end to my political aspirations - if not my life. We all convened in the lodge’s great room, which was aptly named “The Zwarg” after the gamest game fish in the galaxy. The Senator arrived dressed to fish. I carried his rods - all eight of them. “I hope I brought a fly or two that’ll catch some of these Martian trout you’ve been boasting about.” He said, pulling two fly boxes from his vest. Berd Ernk, who was to be our personal guide, responded by telling us that all flies were provided by the lodge and, indeed, there were only two that we needed for the Trough and its tributaries. One was a nymph named The Bohemian. The second was a lovely, delicate dry, dubbed the Madam Butterfly. Both were tied by Trotters master tyer, Mr. Porchini. Hogwash Lake was a different story. Because it was a warm water lake, there were no Zwarg, driblets or perns to be found there. The lake had been stocked with bluegill from Earth, and they had thrived in the warm lake waters, growing to enormous size. Flies for these fish were tied by Mr. Booth, the Chauvanist who had taken our reservation. The Senator quickly made a note of this fact while he announced that he was a dry fly man and would have no need of that “Bahamian thing.” Berd suggested that we take a Roamer up to the Truffle to fish for driblets and perns so that we might get used to Martian fish of smaller proportion. They were, he noted quite unlike anything we had ever experienced. The Senator immediately objected, saying that he was an expert fly fisherman, and he did not intend to spend any of his vacation time “goin’ after dace.” Berd did not argue the point, but suggested that the Senator allow the lodge to supply him with an appropriate outfit. The Senator thanked the owner but said that he preferred to fish with his own equipment. He had, after all, brought along a parcel of rods so that he’d be ready for any situation. He was starting with his favorite four weight, because he really “got a kick out of catchin’ big fish on light tackle.” Berd merely nodded and suggested that we bring several rods along just in case. I selected three rod tubes from the rack I had just filled and followed the Senator to the river which was only a few hundred feet from the front of the lodge. The Trough was not a huge river. One might say that it was the correct size, and the waters were as clear and blue as a Bombay Sapphire gin bottle. Huge fish swirled up beneath a curtain of golden butterfly-like insects sucking them from the surface with a lazy ease. Occasionally, a fish of gargantuan proportion rose from the depths of the central channel and slashed across the surface consuming twenty or thirty flies at a pass. The Senator’s eyes widened as Berd tied a fly to his leader. Berd explained to the Senator that it was only possible to wade out a few feet from shore in most places and that he’d have to watch his step because the water’s clarity made depth exceedingly difficult to gauge. The Senator nodded and waded out a few steps, lifted his rod, and cast his fly up and across the Trough. A good fish rose, swirled near his fly and refused it. He groaned, and cast again with the same result. Berd suggested lengthening his tippet a bit, which he did. His third cast brought success - at least for a moment. A Zwarg of about five pounds sucked down Senator’s fly and headed for the bottom of the channel with such force that Eb’s four weight literally blew up in his hand. As he waded to shore, Berd again offered the use of lodge tackle, but Eb silently opened the tube that held his five weight and twisted the ferrules together. The result, however, was the same. When the seven weight shattered, I returned to the lodge for more rods. The only rod that I didn’t take was Eb’s heirloom cane that he called “The Pike Killer.” The eight and nine weight rods quickly met the same fate as all their lighter brethren. For a moment it appeared that the Senator, who stood staring down at a mound of shattered rod pieces, was about to throw in the towel. He approached me very deliberately, took the ten weight rod tube from my hand, opened it and removed the rod. He then proceeded to break it over his right knee before tossing it on the pile with the others. “Stay here,” he barked as he walked toward the lodge. He returned a few minutes later with “The Pike Killer” strung up and ready to go. There was a new, burning confidence in his eyes. On his second cast a Zwarg of about 4 pounds grabbed his fly and the game was on. The rod held through the first furious run, and then through a second. The fish then settled to the bottom and played a tugging, head shaking, waiting game with the Senator. The Senator lighted one of his best Cuban cigars and smiled. A second later the fish shot downstream with the Senator running behind him his reel screaming. The Senator then gained a little line and then a little more until he was standing at the edge of the center channel the fish in the deep cut just beyond his boot tips. A second later, the fish then cleared the water and shot straight up until its eye was at the level of the Senator’s. It seemed even from a distance that for a brief moment man and fish did something more than just look at each other. In any case, the cigar dropped from Eb’s mouth as his jaw fell open. When the Zwarg hit the water, it was dead. The Senator stooped and lifted the beautiful emerald fish with both hands. “Strangest thing,” he said quietly, looking very confused. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” “It’s what always happens with Zwargs, Senator. They always fight to the death. it’s their way.You did a great job. We’ll bring this beauty back to the lodge and he will be your dinner tonight. Wonderful eating!” “I don’t know,” said Eb. “I don’t think I could . . . ” “Senator, the Zwarg is a great fish. This one gave its life to you. To eat it is an honor. Indeed, it is the only honorable thing to do.” We dined that evening with two Mattelians sisters, Barbara and Pepper Lurp, and with a fly fisher named Znt from the planet MurxxT. The Senator was the only successful flyfisher at the table and the others, who had seen the pile of shattered rods by the river bank, were eager to hear the details of his exploits. The Senator seemed more himself, but his account of the day was touched by moments of genuine awe and humility that I was totally unprepared for. I also noticed that his new demeanor seemed to be having some subtle impact on his appearance. He appeared a bit rounder and softer in the cheeks, his eyes were gentler and his skin had taken on a pale pink color. It wasn’t until I looked in a mirror that I noticed that my own skin was similarly pink. The Martian day had touched us both. When the Zwarg was presented at the table, there was great excitement. The fish had retained much of its beautiful color, and it was surrounded by an array of interplanetary vegetables. I watched the Senator tense up as the platter was placed before him. Berd served him the first portion, but he seemed reluctant to even look at the fish. His eyes lifted to Berd who gave a reassuring nod. He then slipped his fork into the Zwarg’s flesh and took a bite. A look of relief and peace spread over his face and his tensed shoulders relaxed. He smiled warmly and raised a glass of Ebluvian wine. “To the Zwarg. Truly the gamest game fish in the galaxy.” We all followed the Senator’s lead, and the Zwarg was indeed delicious, the company convivial, and the Lurp sisters beautiful. For a moment I forgot all about the Senator’s mission, and it now seems that he had done the same. Jan 5th, 2019 When I arrived at the breakfast table, the Senator and Phip Ernk were just finishing and discussing the day ahead. The Senator, his back to me, was saying, “That’s what I’ll do then. I’d really like some time to think. With 23 hours of daylight, I can fish whenever I feel like it.” Hearing me approach, Eb swivelled about to great me. “Did you sleep well, Solomon? You were dead to the world when I got up.” Somehow I managed to respond without hesitation, but I’ll never know how. I’m sure my eyes widened before I looked down at the floor and composed myself. Senator Hollingsworth’s “Lyndon Johnson” ears had grown larger and more pointed. The tops were beginning to fold down over the shell of the outer ear. The lobes, on the other hand, had all but disappeared. His nostrils had widened and enlarged, and the tip of his nose had tilted sharply upward and flattened. His complexion closely matched Phip’s. I was overcome by a great urge to run to the nearest mirror to look at my own face, but resisted. “The Senator is taking a day off from fishing after his triumph of yesterday,” said Phip. “He told me that you fly fish, so I was wondering if you’d like to take a little trip to Lake Hogwash to do a little bluegill fishing? The Senator has already agreed if you’re interested.” Despite my fears, I could think of no way to bow out gracefully, so I agreed to leave for Lake Hogwash after breakfast. ... A close inspection in the mirror confirmed the changes I had feared. My skin tone was decidedly pinker and my nose more pug-like. I seemed rounder, but my ears were not larger or pointed. I was both relieved and terrified, if that is possible. I considered the possibility that these changes were temporary and would disappear when I returned to Earth’s atmosphere. I prayed that would be the case. Not knowing what to expect on my journey to Lake Hogwash, I slipped a tape recorder into my pocket and pinned a tiny microphone fly to my fly patch before meeting Phip at the Roamer. ... Phip was waiting for me when I left the lodge. Glancing off to the water’s edge, I saw the Senator sitting on a large rock outcropping. It appeared he was reading a book. The trip to Lake Hogwash took about an hour in the Roamer, and Phip did everything he could during the first half hour to put me as ease. Finally he said, “You’re probably pretty confused by all these changes aren’t you, Solomon? I want you to know that there is nothing to worry about. There is no evil plot here. There are some complications, but we can handle them if you’ll help.” “Handle them? Complications?” I stammered. “The Senator is turning into a pig and all you can say is that there are some complications!” Phip smiled and said “Hollingsworth is not the complication. You are.” “What?” “You’ve already seen that Hollingsworth is becoming one of us. That was expected. What wasn’t expected was that he would bring a companion who wasn’t as committed to fly fishing as he is.” “I don’t get it.” “I know. I know. You need, and deserve, a little background information. Do you think you can concentrate?” I wanted to say that I was all ears, but the Senator’s appearance made me think the better of the expression. I settled for “I’ll do my best.” Phip exhaled softly and smiled. “Okay, I’ll do my best as well. Let me begin by asking you if you’ve noticed anything unusual about the staff at Trotters - other than that they are all pigs?” I thought for a moment. “Not really.” “Think about it. Haven’t you noticed that all of the Chauvanists are male?” “Well, yes, but what of it?” “Very. Very important.” He paused for a moment. “We need to start with an idea that is a little hard to grasp, but it is the only way to make sense of Trotters and the events of the last two days. That idea is that not all beings reproduce sexually. Let me repeat that because Earthlings have a hard time with the concept. Not all beings reproduce sexually. There are no female Chauvanists. There are many places in the universe where sex is not the origin of species.” “But how do you . . . ?” “Good question and to the point. We transform. We find other beings and turn them into our own kind. I know that you are about to object, but think carefully about it before you do. What’s wrong with transformation? Consider the Senator. What have you noticed about him over the last two days?” “You mean that he is a nicer pers...ig?” “Exactly. And does he seem unhappy?” “No, but then why should he. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him.” “But he does. That’s the point. He is completely aware of the transformation. It began with the catching of the Zwarg. The Zwarg is not only the greatest game fish in the galaxy; it is also the way to enlightenment. Eb Hollingsworth is on his way to seeing a truth that he could never see before he caught the Zwarg. When you came to breakfast this morning, we were just completing a discussion of the nature of moral action in the universe. He was deeply engrossed. Can you believe that?” “But is this the right thing to do? He’s not who he was! You’re changing him against his will.” “Not at all. He’s perfectly happy to be changed.” “What if he weren’t?” “That can’t happen. He’s a fisherman.” “What do you mean it can’t happen? It’s happening to me!” “I mean to say the universe is constantly moving toward greater perfectability and that we have a role in promoting that universal inclination. Specifically, our role is to take grossly imperfect beings from the galaxy without regard to planetary affiliation and make better beings of them. Not superior, but better. When we asked ourselves the question, ‘Who is most in need of improvement?’ The obvious answer was, fly fishermen. They are gullible, antisocial, superstitious, and they are liars. It really doesn’t matter which planet they come from. It’s a universal trait.” “Does the transformation remove their desire to fly fish?” “Not at all, but it does rid them of their addiction and their compulsion to lie and avoid social contact. It puts fishing in perspective and allows them to appreciate it as a spiritual undertaking and not as predation with overtones of species and technological superiority.” “I have to ask. What about the Mattelians? They’re . . . ” “Female?” He smiled. “They are lovely, aren’t they? And quite witty. They are completely unaffected by our methods. We have no power over them. We encourage their presence here because . . . well, because we want to attract fly fishermen and having them here doesn’t hurt.” I was working hard to process everything that Phip was telling me. It wasn’t easy. “You said that I was a complication. You still haven’t answered my question about me? I don’t want to be transformed.” “I know. And you won’t be - not completely in any case.” “Why not?” “Because you are not a true fisherman. If you were, you would be changing as rapidly as Eb, but you were simply brought along as a companion. This happens occasionally, but usually we catch it before the fisherman and companion arrive. In those cases we cancel the reservation. In your case, Eb said that you were as avid a fly fisher as he is. The extent of the transformation indicates that he lied. We should have been more careful.” “Will I catch up?” I asked. “Your father and mother? Did they fish?” “No.” “That’s the problem. Your upbringing was too good. You may get a bit pinker, your nose may widen and flatten out, and your fingers may shorten a bit more, but that will be about it.” “So I am just a prisoner?” “Absolutely not! The Chauvanists don’t take prisoners. You are free to do whatever you want.” “I can go home?” “Of course, but that’s where the true complication resides.” “What do you mean?” “Your world is not very accepting of difference. As slight as the changes might be, you’d be a freak. Your possibilities would be extremely limited.” I knew that he was right. “What should I do?” “I can’t tell you what you should do, Solomon. It’s your decision, but if I were you, I’d choose a world where physical appearance is of no consequence. We can help you find one if that is your decision.” I fell silent. I really couldn’t organize my thoughts sufficiently to weigh my options at that point. Fortunately, we were pulling up to Lake Hogwash. The fishing was as spectacular as promised. I caught giant bluegill after bluegill, but each catch left me with an uneasy feeling. Despite Phip’s reassurances, I yearned for a mirror. The pieces didn’t seem to fit together. At the end of the day I asked Phip why Trotters hadn’t contacted Earth until 2019. “Yes. A very good question. To be honest, some of the information that you read about Trotters was fabricated. The polar lander didn’t accidentally crash into our toolshed. We caused it to crash harmlessly about 300 urgs behind the lodge. We had been watching your planet closely, and we knew that the lander would expose us. We also knew that NASA would have difficulty financing another launch if the 1999 lander were unsuccessful. We were correct, of course, and Trotters was safe for many years. Then, about two years ago we learned that new Martian initiatives were under way. We needed to find some way to keep Trotters open as long as we possibly could and then exit without leaving a trace of our presence here. We decided that the best course would be to initiate contact and control our departure according to our own schedule. We developed a plan that included Hollingsworth from the start. He didn’t select us. We selected him.” “So, Senator Hollingsworth will be your first and only complete transformation?” “Almost. A number of years ago one of your people reneged on a promise to sell some pins to a fly fishing group on the Internet. Consequently, he went into hiding only to reappear once or twice before settling in a remote area of Mexico where we had some contacts passing as wild boars. Our friends put us in touch with the person in question and we arranged to have him join us for a visit. His transformation was almost immediate.” “What happened to him?” “You’ve met him.” “Really?” “Yes. Mr. Booth.” The ride back to Trotters was marked by silence. I had a thousand questions to ask Phip, but I couldn’t get beyond my own self pity. My career was in ruins. My life was in ruins. I still had college loans to pay off. January 8, 2019 A day passed before the Senator and I met again and his transformation was nearly complete save for his hands which still possessed short stubby fingers. This was our last conversation and I recorded it as I had my conversation with Phip. Here is my transcription Senator Solomon. I hear the fishing at Lake Hogwash was excellent. Me Yes it was...it was...amazing. Senator Good. I, ah... Me Senator, is everything okay? I mean are you okay? Should I be...? Senator Goodness, yes. Everything is fine, more than fine. You needn’t concern yourself about me, Solomon. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. It’s funny isn’t it...? That I had to evolve into a pig before I could learn that I had spent my whole life fabricating, superficial truths to make my life bearable instead of learning to live in the world ...eh universe...as it is.” Me What will you do now? Do you know? Senator Well, I know that I’m going to help the Ernks shut down Trotters. I’ll keep sending messages back to Earth to stall any Mars initiatives while the streams and lake are being drained. It shouldn’t be that difficult. After that? Probably a trip to Chauvan and then... Well, I’m not sure what happens then. What will you do Solomon? You’re the one that everyone is worried about. Me I’m not sure. I have to give it some more thought. Senator I understand. Well, I’m going to go fish the Trough for the last time. Want to come along? Me I wouldn’t miss it. — end of transcript — The Senator was surrounded by onlookers as he strung up his rod and tied on a large Madam Butterfly. The river was remarkably calm with only a few insects skimming the water’s surface. No fish could be seen rising. Phip pointed to the shadow of a large, subsurface rock ledge near the far side of the channel. “That’s where Twarg holds. He’s one of the originals. Seldom seen and never hooked.” He laughed. “I guess you’d call him the UberZwarg. You might give him a try.” The Senator waded to the very edge of the channel drop, his chubby, pink body balanced on two very small hooves. Because his fingers were only half their original length, he held his rod like a spey caster and waved the line in intricate patterns above his head. When he made the final forward cast, his fly settled gently above the shadow but a bit too close to the opposite bank, but he then mended line expertly and the fly twitched into perfect position above the shadow. The fly almost immediately disappeared into a deep swirl as though sucked under by a creature far below the water’s surface. The line pulled taut and the rod bent suddenly and deeply. Then, Eb Hollingsworth, unstable on his newly acquired hooves, pitched forward into the channel and disappeared completely.. A moment passed. His hat floated to the surface. An instant later his right hand still gripping his rod appeared. At first Eb, or what we could see of him, drifted along at speed of the current, then he began to move faster and faster in wide circles in the central channel. We ran along the bank trying to keep up until finally Eb Hollingsworth’s hand and rod disappeared into the deepest central rift. We held our collective breath and waited for what seemed an eternity. Then, when it seemed pointless to wait any longer, a great arc of emerald and pink appeared above the central channel. It was Eb Hollingsworth astride Twarg the UberZwarg. One hoofed hand was clamped firmly on the great fish’s dorsal fin while the other waved up and out to right like a rodeo rider. He let out a great “OINK” as Twarg porpoised across the stream, and made one last, mighty leap to deliver the Senator to the very spot where we were standing. As Twarg turned and disappeared into the depths of the Trough, I couldn’t help but notice that the Senator’s transformation was complete. He was pink, portly and handsome as only pigs can be. “That was remarkable, absolutely remarkable!” He said. “I think I need to go back to lodge and get a little rest.” As Eb walked back up to the lodge, something in the water caught my eye. It was the Senator’s rod, Pike Killer, drifting in the current, heading toward the deep rift in the Martian surface some twelve miles downstream. May 12, 2020 I stayed on at Trotters for a few days after the Senator’s last outing on the Trough. Then, with no clear plan in mind, I bid the Senator and the Ernks farewell and hitched a ride to Mattel with Barb and Pepper. I had decided that Phip was correct and there was no point in returning to Earth. Mattel actually turned out to be a good choice for a partially transformed Earthling because the elegant and sinuous Mattelians were largely uninterested in body type. Their males, the Kens, were handsome but vacuous so they appreciated even marginally witty conversation. Shortly after arriving, I was introduced to Barb’s friend Ginger and we have become something of a couple. I haven’t heard from the Senator since I left Mars, but I did get a message from Phip Ernk. Apparently, he and his brother have located a choice fishing venue on the planet Phranque and intend to open Trotters II there in a year or two. Phip suggested that I might like to get more serious about fly fishing, solitude and lying before dropping in for a visit. It’s a thought. Mattelian fishing is actually pretty good and writing my memoirs has provided ample opportunity for solitude and lying. I might take Phip up on his offer. On the other hand, I am rather fond of the Mattelians and I’ve discovered that they are one of a relative hand full of galactic beings that still joyously engage in sexual reproduction as a way of continuing their species. Being only half a male Chauvanist pig, I continue to find the idea appealing. END
John E. McMillan had lived his whole life in Montana. For as long as he could remember, he had been a trout fisherman. His flyrods and reels were the source of many good memories for him, and he often fished with the first flyrod he had ever used. Trout were unsafe when Mr. McMillan found his way to a stream. He was a well-respected member of the flyfishing community in which he lived. For about as long as he remembered, he had also dreamed of catching a sailfish on the fly. He had read the stories, seen the pictures and wondered openly and to anyone who would listen what it would be like. This was truly a dream come true, a lifetime of wishes granted. He stood at the stern of the boat, far off of the coast of FL, his two best friends standing nearby and thanked the powers that be for this dream realized. The bright sun blazed overhead, radiating heat, but not enough to completely break through the cool January winds offshore. It was enough, though, and he was thankful to be here. He stroked the old wooden railing of the boat and waited patiently, watching the teasers and the baits being trolled behind the boat… waiting. It was not long before the cry he had been waiting for pealed through the air… "Fish in the baits!!" It was John’s turn up. As the mate hurriedly pulled in the teasers and the baits, John picked up the awkward 12 wt flyrod and with one short backcast, plopped the huge fly down behind the boat, and following the mate's instruction, pulled off enough line to get the fly back away from the boat. He could see the sailfish as it swam through the wake the boat created. He could feel the boat starting to slow down. His chest pounded with anticipation. The fly bounced along in the water behind the boat, a noisy creation of feathers and foam on a gigantic hook. The sailfish noticed it. It struck at the fly and missed. It followed for a few seconds more and then struck again. This time there was no missing. John had his first sailfish on. It had been a long time coming. John could not have asked for better friends. George and Steven had been through everything with him. They were best men at each other's weddings. Their wives were in the same bridge club. They had fished together since boyhood. It was a classic storybook friendship the three of them shared. They cheered John on as the battle of his life began. He could feel the rocking of the boat in the waves… rocking, rocking. He could feel the warmth of the sun as it tried to cut through the cool wind blowing across his face. The sailfish jumped… one time, then two. He held onto the rod and began to reel. The fish took out more line. The battle was on. All the while, the boat was rocking, the breeze was blowing and the faint warmth of the sun comforted him. After a while, his arms began to ache. His back hurt, his chest was sore from straining. His friends were a pillar of support. "You are almost there, John, don’t quit now!" they exclaimed. He truly did love his friends. On and on the battle waged. His arms screamed. His heart pounded, sweat popped up on his brow despite the cool breeze. The rocking of the boat became his nemesis. His back and chest screamed with pain, and yet John went on. This was his dream, his sailfish, and nothing would stop him. He was going to finish the job. Shortly after, he had the fish to the back of the boat. The deck was a flurry of activity as hugs were given, high-fives made and congratulations abounded. The mates were busy getting the beast into the boat. John stood there, at the stern, his hand resting on the old, worn wooden railing, the sun shining down, the cool wind blowing and realized that the pain was no longer there. It was a cold winter's day in Montana when Anne Marie McMillan walked into the den to call her husband for dinner. She thought he must have fallen asleep, as her calls had not brought him forth. As she entered the den, the first thing she noticed was the cold breeze whipping through the partly open window. The fire in the fireplace blazed with warmth, although just barely cutting through the stiff wind that blew in from the outside. She looked over to find John in his usual place. She started to ask why the window was opened when she noticed the queer smile upon his face. John sat in his old wooden rocking chair, his hands resting on the old wooden arms, the chair still barely rocking. A smile was upon his face, although John was no longer there. Anne cried out. The fire tried hard to warm up the inside of the den as the cold January wind blew through the room. The three widows sat alone after the funeral. Anne and the wives of George and Steve all sat grieving. All three had lost their husbands this year and had found a great comfort in each other's company. They talked of times past, of their husbands' follies, adventures, and mostly of their fishing. Lois, wife of George, solemnly looked over at Anne and commented on how the boys had always wanted to go to FL and fish for sailfish. Anne looked over at Lois sadly. "I suppose none of them ever will now." The cold wind blew. The sun, high above, tried hard to send its warmth down as Anne stroked the cold hard wood of the casket. end
Burnt Sienna, Raw Sienna, Rich Cadmium Yellow, Crimson Red and fading green , Vibrating against Cobalt skies Reflecting in deep Pthalo Green pools. Moving streams, riffling waters, Pebbled river beds, Back eddies and inside seams. Flowing over rocks and boulders Holding the predators silver prey. Golden Brookies, wary Cutthroats, Spotted Dolly Vardens, Speckled Browns and dancing Rainbows. Pausing in the calmer current Waiting for the passing morsel. Damselfly and Stonefly nymphs, Succulent Callibaetis, Dragonflies and Caddis' cased. Preying angler stands nearby Casting imitations to the foray. Watching, waiting, casting, Perfect timing crucial, Silent stealth and downward drift. Screaming reel as fly is taken, Running line round yonder bend. Writhing, twisting, flying leaps, Shaking side to side, Flashing white and silver, Fighting hard against the current, Losing strength the battles done. end
As the wind blew, gently and cool Along the small burbling stream; A ring at the head of the pool Appeared, awoke me from my dream Quietly, on my knees, I crept, To where I could cast without fear To the slow steady rise that kept Beckoning and drawing me near Pausing before making my cast I shook out some line to float down And loaded my flyrod that way. The leader straightened out just past The nose of a beautiful brown; It rose! I Struck! A wonderful day! end
I watch the line unfurl above my head, Extending silent in an evening clear. Dreamt rhythms from my soul to fly is led. Good friends abridged the winter’s numbing dread ‘Til April’s waking to this season fair. I watch the line unfurl above my head. False cast and haul, the tippet’s sped Behind again. I sense that it is there. Dreamt rhythms from my soul to fly is led. A pause, a beat - one must not get ahead. This wand conducts its deferential air. I watch the line unfurl above my head. I fancy tug and pull of turning head, The measure of a spirit fish caught fair. Dreamt rhythms from my soul to fly is led. The settling then , so soft upon the bed, Then drift, dream, lift up once again to air. I watch the line unfurl above my head; Dreamt rhythms from my soul to fly is led. end
The stars in the skies that shine in her eyes The jungles hold secrets and mysteries and lies The light of the moon spells doom and gloom She will run soon to the tomb of her room And then once asleep come the dreams and the screams As the spirits they keep their schemes and their streams The woman who fishes, green eyes and so wise Is the one who now wishes for no surprise and no lies For once with her rod she caught and she got A mystery no god would have sought or have wrought The visions they came and they show what they show As the jungle rain falls so low and so slow With only a fly at the time on her line She passed through the eye of the line of time As she fought for control of all that she knows She also sought the toll for all the unknown And with the screams of the peel of her reel She slipped into dreams so unstill and so real And then in the end it was she who was caught With a huff of the wind it was she who was sought All that remained of her there was a reel and a fly As they strained to find her and to seal up the why The jungle it holds her within fast in the past From there it scolds her for the last of her casts The moon in sky holds her face if you see The forest hold her body in the form of the trees And somewhere in the jungle lingers her soul You can hear her casting when the wind it does blow Somewhere in the jungle the woman she lives In hope that with each cast the jungle will give The answers to secrets the wind whispered in her mind Forever she’ll remain there and never will she find The stars in the skies they shine like her eyes The jungles hold secrets and mysteries and lies And if it is answers you seek when you cast You may find them and reap them in the jungles at last. end