On another writing site, there was a challenge/contest to write a comedic short story in letter form - about sports.

I stole my own story from Chapter Ten of Behind the Wall (Fishing Lessons Be careful what you fish for), turned it into a letter, and posted it as my entry.

For fun and posterity, I am adding it here, because it is indeed one of my favorite creations:

Carol Marsella's Letter Entry: 

A Fish Story  (Steve tried to teach me to fish.  The divorce hearing is next week!)

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!!! Update on June 30, 2008 !!!
I have been officially ntified the A FISH STORY is one of the finalists for the WDC ROFl COmedy Contest.  THis is very exciting and significant to me because I have read all the other entries and they are damn funny!  One of my competitors, as a matter of fact, is noneother than (Bob) Semper Fi - my esteemed instructor in the Show; Don't Tell Seminar Series I took last year.  A terrific man, wonderful teacher, and awesome writer.  His story was, in my opinion, the funniest of the lot. I am trying to say that although it is unlikely I will win or even place, it really is an honor to be in the company of these great comedy writers.

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!!!  UPDATE on July 2,2008 !!!

I have been officially notified that "A FISH STORY" has

WON First Place

in the WDC ROFL Comedy Contest

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ENTRY

June 1, 2008


Hi Bette,

Sorry I missed your visit on Saturday.  Steve wanted me to go fishing.

You know how he's been asking me to go for years?  Well, lately, he'd been especially adamant about it, insisting it was important to him that I share the experience of his favorite sport.

How could I refuse a request like that?

I figured Saturday was as good a time as any to get it overw... uh, see if I liked it.  So, we made the plans.

Now understand: this meant getting up at three in the morning, in the dark and cold to go to a place that was even darker and colder.  Nevertheless, I had agreed to this, and I was prepared on time with a nice hot cup of coffee for each of us.  I went to the car and waited for him.

All of a sudden, the garage door opened.  I took one look at him and thought I had accidentally stepped into a B-movie.  My handsome, dashing, GQ hunk was standing in front of me wearing a hat that can only be described as...

There is no description.

Bette, it was filthy.  It had a floppy brim all around it and all these things stuck to it.  Steve was wearing a red and black plaid flannel shirt and green boots that were like pants that came up to his armpits - waders, I think he called them - and they had braces or suspenders to hold them up.  (I was not at all sure that I was ever going to be able to make love to him again.  But I digress.)

Anyway, I asked him if he had to wear all that paraphernalia.  He looked at me askance and snorted some lame explanation about needing it.  Stuff about luck, tradition, and superstition.  He went on to say I would understand once I learned to love fishing the way he did.  Buncha nonsense.  He said he bought a pair of boots and a hat for me too, but I threatened to kill him in his sleep if he ever said that to me again.  He let it go.

I was full of apprehension, but I got into the truck anyway.  He took the good-ol'-boy pick-up truck.  (Just to make it more flippin' wonderful.)  The drive to the lake took an hour and a half.  While we were on our way there, he gave me this talk.  The fishing talk.  (--Most people get it when they turn thirteen, but I'm a late bloomer.)

He told me all about his new special fishing pole.  He paid a lot of money for it.  I did ask several times how much, but he never answered me; he just kept saying, "A lot, and it's very special."  Oh, he beamed when he informed me that he was going to let me use it because it was so wonderful.  Surely I would love fishing with this special pole.  He was so proud of himself.  It was weird.  I found the whole thing disconcerting somehow, but I went along.

We arrived and went through the obligatory perfect spot ritual.  Then he gave me a casting lesson, and it was time for me to actually (God save us) fish.  I had to cast the line.  And I wanted to do it right, but I was clueless.  I took a few minutes to get it all feeling just right, and then I did a few small practice casts.  I was getting ready...to cast.  Steve said I was channeling Norton from The Honeymooners.  He said it was very hard to take.

Well, I guess that's true, but I wasn't doing it on purpose; I was trying to do it right, so he would be proud of me.  All of a sudden he yelled at me!  Really loud.

"THROW IT!"

He scared me.  I mean, he made me jump.  Next thing I knew, I bit my lip and threw it.  And I tell you, boy-howdy!  Eight years at University were not lost on me.  No sir.  The minute that fishing pole left my hand, I knew right away that was wrong!

Now, here's the thing.  Steve had turned away, because he had become disgusted with me, and didn't know I threw his special fishing pole into the... I was just standing there, struck dumb with fear.  He turned back to face me and wanted to know where his fishing pole was.  All I could do was hold up my arm and point limply.  I could not speak.

Right about that time was when it all went south.

He took one look at his new special fishing pole (the one that cost so much that he couldn't say the price) floating down the river and, darned if he didn't yell at me again!

"You threw it?  My new fishing pole is floating down the f-ing river?"

Well I was not about to take that.  I figured it was time I let him know just how I felt about this whole fishing expedition.  I shouted right back at him, "Then you better go get it there, BOOT MAN!"  I was thinking I'd run for my life when he went into the water.  Then I figured I'd better stay - in case he drowned or something - so I could call for help.

Of course, he did manage to retrieve it, only his boots filled up with water.  He could not get out.  I asked him if he wanted me to cut holes in them to let the water out, but he told me to stay away from him with the knife.

Once he managed to sort that all out, I figured we could go home, but he said "no."  He said we had come there to fish, and fish was what we were going to do.  (By golly!)  For some reason, I wasn't allowed to touch the new fishing pole after that.  He gave me the old one.

I felt pretty bad about the whole thing, and I told him so.  He said he would forgive me.  Someday.

Then he worked with me on casting a little bit more.

After a while, I realized that there was just no way I was going to get the hang of it.  I told him I wanted to do it my way.  That was when I got the second fishing talk - about how there is a right way and a wrong way to do things and, while I could do whatever I wanted (on account of this was supposed to be relaxing), I really should not count on actually catching anything.  I thanked him for the talk and said I still wanted to do it my way.

Steve shook his head, gave me his blessing, and walked down the bank to a better spot - where he couldn't see me fishing my way.

It's a good thing, too, because I did everything wrong.  Everything.  And I caught more diggity-dang fish than I ever needed or wanted.  Every time I cast that line I caught a fish.  After a while I was trying not to catch them.  I was shooing them away, saying stuff like, "No, fish! Go away, fish!  Swim for your life!  Go away fish!"

I must have been quite a sight!

I caught eighteen fish.

Steve caught three.

My smallest fish was bigger than his biggest fish.

As you can well imagine, our Stevie was not a happy camper.  He packed up the tent and said we were going home because our romantic weekend was ruined.  (For some reason, the notion that there was romance lurking somewhere on this particular weekend had not occurred to me. You'll be proud of me, Bette; I refrained from spouting forth the thousand or so sarcastic remarks that were popping like popcorn in my wee-little, fishing challenged brain.)

So, we were on our way home, and there I was chattering on and on.  I was happy.  I mean, shoot!  I caught eighteen fish!  Steve asked me to be quiet, but I was so busy being happy, I did not realize how important it was to him.  I just kept going on about how much fun I had and how there was nothing to it.  This was a mistake.

In no short order, he pulled the truck over and stepped down.  He didn't say a word.  Just walked around the truck, opened my door, and told me to get out.  I shook my head, because to tell you the truth, at that point in time, I was afraid of him.  I mean, I was having thoughts like: He could kill me out here, bury my body, and no one will ever know what happened to me.  He reached in, took my elbow, and made me, I mean, helped me get out.  He put his hands on my shoulders and gently turned me toward him.  Then he leaned down to look directly into my eyes and he spoke very softly - kind of like a teacher instructing a slow student.  He said that he really needed me to shut up.  Said it was very important that he not hear my voice until he said I could speak.  He asked me if I understood.  I nodded, and he let me get back into the truck.

After a while, I reached for the radio to turn it on, and the way he glared at me made me reconsider.  A few miles later, he missed our turn-off, and I did think of saying something, but I thought better of it on account of not wanting Michael to grow up without a mother!

By the time we got home, it was dark.  Steve's parents and Michael were sleeping.  We came in quietly, went to our room, took separate showers, and went to sleep.  I had not been given permission to speak yet.

When I woke up in the morning, he was already gone.

His mother was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in.  She looked up at me and shook her head.  I was not sure if I was allowed to speak or not, so I helped myself to a coffee and took it to my room.  In a while, wee Michael came in and he let me speak.

After a short while, Steve's dad came to my room to let me know he and Steve's mom were leaving.  He asked me if I was all right.  I said I was, and they both apologized for how Steve was behaving.  I thought his mother was mad with me, but she was feeling bad about Steve being so all fired up.

In his defense, I told them what happened.  She winked when she allowed as to how I should have thrown the fish back, leading me to believe she just might be speaking from experience.  Well, I felt like the stupidest person on earth because, I swear, that simply never occurred to me.

Anyway, it's all right now.  The divorce hearing is next week.  (I'M KIDDING!)

Hope you enjoyed my little fish story.

Carol - still in love with a fisherman!

© Copyright 2008 Carol Marsella. All rights reserved.
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