This piece, a short story entitled Winter Green Gorge, has been published in the second issue of the Quarryman Literary Journal in Cork, Ireland. Below is a small, introductory excerpt. Enjoy!
My father’s hands were a hundred times the size of mine. They were rough, calloused, tanned. I noticed them most of all when he took me fishing. He’d grab worms out of an old coffee can and stick them carefully onto our hooks, his huge fingers expertly stabbing the poor bastards to ensure that they would not fall off even if the current was strong.
We would rise early in the morning. I’d put on old jeans and a sweatshirt, then grab my gloves and the blue fishing hat that was too big for me. It used to be his. It hung down slightly over my eyes so I’d lift my head and look up high so I could see. Dad had started to pin tackle pieces to my hat after every trip. He gave me blue and pink feathers, striped and silvery minnows, white and red fishing bobbers. They all represented my skill as a fisherman. Or fisherwoman. My hat of honor, he’d say. Each time I caught a fish, he’d stick another piece of tackle into the fabric. It become a trophy.