#bluegill right??

[snowflakeeel]

new hat lol

[long-lost-soul]

my favorite wildlife sightings from recently :]

[v-iv-rusty]

last post reminds me I've been craving fish so bad the last few days

[lxvsiick]

I NAMED A FISH AFTER YOU | KIM LEEHAN X READER

PAIRING: childhood best friend! kim leehan x childhood best friend! fem! reader

SUMMARY: Moving into a new neighborhood, 8 year old Y/n meets a boy who really likes fish on her way to the park.

GENRE: childhood best friends, fish, fluff

WORDCOUNT: 2.8k

A/N: a little leehan short story/imagine because i was thinking about fishes and found this picture of leehan -- he looks so cute showing off his fish charms ,, also -- i'm so tempted to publish part 1 of O U R ,, i have 15 parts in my drafts . . .

The sun was bright and warm in Busan as the eight-year-old Y/n skipped along the sidewalk of her new neighborhood. Her family had just moved in the week before, and today, she was finally free to explore. A park sat just down the street, and she could already imagine the swings and slides waiting for her. But as she approached the park, something else caught her attention.

By a small pond near the edge of the park, a boy around her age was sitting cross-legged, staring intently at the water. His messy hair fell into his eyes, but he didn’t seem to care. Curious, she wandered over, crouching down next to him.

“What’re you looking at?” she asked, her voice light with interest.

Without turning his head, the boy pointed at the water. “Fishes,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

Y/n tilted her head. “Fishes? What about them?”

“They’re cool,” he replied. “This one’s a bluegill, and that one over there is a pumpkinseed. See the way they swim? And if you watch them long enough, you can see how they’re different from the others. Fishes are smart. Way smarter than people think.”

Y/n stared at him, her eyebrows furrowing. “You’re kinda weird.”

“Thanks,” he said, still not looking at her. “I like fishes.”

She blinked at him, unsure what to make of the boy who would rather talk about pond creatures than, well, anything else. “Do you wanna be friends?”

He finally turned his head to look at her, his expression blank. “I’d rather be friends with fishes.”

Y/n crossed her arms. “Well, you can’t be friends with fishes. They can’t talk, and they don’t have legs. So you’re stuck with me.”

The boy paused, considering her words before giving a small shrug. “Okay, I guess.”

“Good!�� she said with a grin. “Now, come on. Let’s—”

Before she could finish, she shifted her weight to stand up, but her foot slipped on the muddy bank. With a yelp, she tumbled forward and splashed right into the pond, sending ripples across the water. In her panic, she grabbed onto the boy’s shirt, pulling him in after her.

There was a brief moment of chaos, water sloshing everywhere as they scrambled to their feet in the shallow water. Soaked and stunned, Y/n looked over at the boy, who wiped pond muck off his face with an exasperated sigh.

“You just became my friend, and you’re already trying to murder me,” he said, his face deadpan. “That’s why I’d rather be friends with fishes.”

She burst into laughter, even as water dripped down her face. “Sorry about that. I’m Jung Y/n, by the way.”

He shook his head, but there was a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m Kim Donghyun. And... it’s okay.”

And just like that, with wet shoes and muddy clothes, a new friendship was born.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The soft blue glow of the tanks lit up the dim hallways of the aquarium, making everything feel like it was underwater. The sound of bubbling water and the occasional splashing filled the air as Leehan and Y/n wandered from tank to tank, their parents chatting behind them.

Leehan walked a few steps ahead, eyes wide with excitement. “Look, that one’s a lionfish!” he exclaimed, pointing at a spiny, colorful fish that floated lazily in one of the tanks.

Y/n leaned closer, her face nearly pressed against the glass. “Why’s it called a lionfish? It doesn’t look like a lion.”

“It’s because of its fins. See? They look like a lion’s mane,” Leehan explained, puffing his chest out a little. “And they’re super poisonous, so don’t touch one if you ever see it.”

She gave him a side-eye. “Why would I ever touch a fish?”

He shrugged. “I dunno, some people are weird.”

They moved to the next tank, which was filled with tiny fish darting around a coral reef. Leehan tapped the glass gently. “These are clownfish. They live in sea anemones because they’re immune to the sting.”

Y/n squinted, her nose scrunching up. “Clownfish? They don’t look like clowns.”

“They have stripes like clown costumes!” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And did you know that if the female clownfish dies, the male turns into a female?”

She blinked at him, frowning. “Wait—what?”

“Yeah, it’s true. They can change from boy to girl if they need to. Isn’t that cool?” he said, his voice full of excitement.

Y/n stared at the fish for a moment, then looked at him with a mischievous smile. “Are you gonna turn into a girl someday, Donghyunnie?”

He gave her a look, his face turning a little red. “No! I’m not a clownfish!”

She laughed, clearly enjoying teasing him. “Sure, sure.”

They continued on to the next exhibit, a massive tank filled with all kinds of fish. A shark glided by the glass, and Leehan practically jumped in place, pointing at it with wide eyes. “That’s a blacktip reef shark! They’re not dangerous to people, but they’re really fast. And sometimes they swim in really shallow water!”

Y/n watched the shark swim in lazy circles. “It’s kinda cute,” she said.

“Cute?” Leehan repeated, his face scrunched up in disbelief. “It’s a shark.”

“Yeah, but look at its little face,” she said, leaning closer to the glass. “It looks like it’s smiling.”

He shook his head. “You’re weird.”

“You like fish,” she shot back, giving him a smug grin. “That’s way weirder.”

He opened his mouth to argue but then closed it, knowing she had a point. Instead, he turned to the next tank, full of colorful jellyfish that pulsed and floated like little ghosts. His eyes widened again. “Jellyfish! These ones are called moon jellies. They don’t have brains or hearts, but they can still sting.”

Y/n tilted her head, clearly unimpressed. “No brains? Sounds like some kids in our class.”

He snorted, trying not to laugh, and moved to the next display. “Look, a blue tang! That’s what Dory from Finding Nemo is.”

“Ohh,” she said, her eyes lighting up with recognition. “I like that one! It’s pretty.”

For a moment, they both just stood there, staring at the fish as it swam through the water. The light from the tank reflected in their eyes, and Y/n leaned a little closer to Leehan.

“You really like fish, huh?” she asked, her voice quieter than before.

He nodded, his eyes still glued to the tank. “Yeah. They’re cool. They’re… peaceful.”

She smiled softly, watching him for a moment before turning back to the fish. “I think they’re pretty cool too.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The park was quiet under the soft glow of the streetlights. The swings swayed gently in the cool night breeze, their creaking the only sound breaking the silence. Y/n and Leehan sat side by side on the swings, their legs almost touching.

Y/n looked down at her feet, tracing patterns in the gravel with her sneakers. Her usually bright eyes were dim, and her shoulders slumped as she swung back and forth slowly. “I can’t believe we’re going to different high schools,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with sadness.

Leehan kept his gaze straight ahead, his own heart heavy despite his calm exterior. “Yeah, it’s... hard to believe.”

The words hung in the air, a shared understanding between them. The reality of their separation was sinking in, making the night feel colder.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “We won’t be in the same classes or see each other every day. It’s just... not going to be the same.”

He turned his head to glance at her, his expression softening. “I know. I’ll miss you too.”

She looked up, catching his eyes. “You’re not very good at showing it, you know. But I can tell you’re sad too.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “I guess I’m just trying to stay positive. It doesn’t change the fact that we’ll still be friends.”

Her face brightened slightly at his words, though the sadness didn’t entirely fade. “We will stay friends, right? We promised.”

“Of course,” he said, nodding firmly. “We’ll talk after school, text, video call, and hang out at each other’s houses. Nothing’s going to change that.”

She reached over and lightly bumped his swing with hers, a gesture of reassurance. “Yeah. We’ll make it work. No matter what.”

He nodded, his voice steady but his eyes reflecting the same sadness she felt. “We will. And besides, it’s just high school. We’ll still see each other a lot.”

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her emotions. “I guess you’re right. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Nope,” he said, giving her a small, encouraging smile. “It’s just a new chapter. We’re still us.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the swings moving rhythmically as they each reflected on the changes ahead. The night felt less daunting with the reassurance of their friendship, their shared promises warming the chilly air.

“Hey,” Y/n said after a moment, her voice more hopeful. “Promise me you’ll keep being you, no matter what.”

He chuckled softly, the sound almost lost in the night breeze. “I promise. And you keep being you. That’s what makes us work.”

She laughed quietly, the sound mingling with the creak of the swings. “Deal.”

As they continued to swing in companionable silence, the weight of their separation felt a little lighter, buoyed by the strength of their bond and the certainty that their friendship would endure, no matter the distance.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

It was late afternoon at the small café where Leehan worked, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filling the air. The café was always busy around this time, but for now, he was on break, lounging at a table with his five closest friends.

They had been friends since high school, ever since Leehan had somehow charmed his way into their group despite his reputation for being quiet and a little… odd. Even now, sitting with them, he was half-listening to their conversation, more focused on stirring the iced coffee in front of him than joining in.

“Man, you seriously never hung out with any girls in high school,” one of his friends, Jaehyun, teased, kicking his chair lightly. “You were like, a ghost when it came to that stuff. But you expect us to believe you have this mythical childhood best friend that you keep mentioning who’s a girl?”

“Yeah, right,” another friend, Riwoo, chimed in, rolling his eyes. “If she existed, we’d have met her by now.”

The others nodded in agreement, all of them laughing as Leehan shook his head, not even bothering to defend himself. He’d told them a hundred times about Y/n, his best friend from when they were kids, but they never believed him. It didn’t help that they’d gone to different high schools and now different colleges. To his friends, she was some made-up figure—part of his weirdness.

Just as Jaehyun was about to make another joke, the bell above the café door jingled.

Leehan glanced up and his heart did a little flip. There she was—Y/n. She spotted him almost immediately, her eyes lighting up as she hurried toward him, her bag bouncing against her side. Without any hesitation, she threw her arms around him in a tight hug.

“Kim Donghyun! I’ve missed you so much!” she exclaimed, her voice warm with excitement.

For a moment, he was too stunned to react. He hadn’t seen her in person for so long—after she transferred schools, they’d only texted or called, always busy with their separate lives. But now she was here, right in front of him.

He awkwardly returned the hug, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I, uh… missed you too.”

When they finally pulled apart, Y/n turned to his friends, giving them a polite nod. But her smile faded when she noticed the looks on their faces—five pairs of eyes wide, mouths open in utter disbelief.

“Wha—” Woonhak stammered. “No way.”

Jaehyun leaned closer to Leehan, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Dude… did you hire her to act like your childhood best friend?”

The other guys burst into laughter, nudging each other, clearly convinced they were onto something.

Y/n blinked at them, raising an eyebrow. “Hired me? To do what?”

“They think you’re, uh…” Leehan rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “They don’t believe you’re real.”

“Real?” she repeated, her expression shifting from confusion to mild annoyance. “I’ve known him since we were, like, eight. What’s wrong with you guys?”

Jaehyun snorted. “It’s just—you know, he’s never mentioned you before—”

“He never hangs out with girls,” Riwoo added with a smirk.

“Except his fishes,” Taesan quipped, earning laughs from the group.

Y/n crossed her arms, her lips curling into a smirk of her own. “Oh, right. You guys are the weird ones.”

Leehan looked up at her, deadpan. “Told you.”

She laughed softly, playfully ruffling his hair. “You haven’t changed at all.”

His friends exchanged stunned glances, clearly still trying to process the fact that this girl—the one they thought was made up—was real, standing right in front of them. And even more confusing, she seemed to be completely normal. Not weird at all, like they had assumed anyone associated with Leehan would be.

“Okay, okay,” Jaehyun finally said, raising his hands in surrender. “We believe you. She’s real.”

“But we still need proof,” Sungho added. “Like embarrassing childhood stories. Got any?”

Y/n grinned, her eyes gleaming mischievously as she looked at Leehan. “Oh, I’ve got stories.”

Leehan groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Please don’t.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

After many embarrassing stories and saying goodbye to his friends, Leehan walks Y/n home.

The night was calm as Leehan and Y/n walked side by side, their footsteps muted on the quiet sidewalk. The soft glow of streetlights illuminated their path, casting gentle shadows as they caught up after his shift at work.

Y/n glanced at him with a warm, reflective smile. “You know, I really missed seeing you like this. It’s been too long.”

​​He looked over at her, his expression serious but soft. “I miss it too. It’s been a while.”

She smiled faintly, then turned her gaze forward, her fingers brushing against the cool evening air. “It’s strange. Even after all these years, you haven’t changed one bit. You’re still the same old Kim Donghyun I remember. But your name is different. Leehan?”

He chuckled softly, the sound almost shy. “It’s just a nickname the guys gave me. I’m still Kim Donghyun to you.”

She looked at him, a small, understanding smile on her lips. “It’s a good thing, though. You’ve made great friends and it means you’ve stayed true to yourself.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, their shoulders brushing occasionally. Y/n broke the silence, her voice laced with nostalgia. “Remember when we first met at the pond, by the park? You were so focused on those fish, and I came over and, well... I dragged you right into the water after.”

He chuckled, the memory bringing a smile to his face. “How could I forget? I was so surprised. After agreeing to become friends with you, you decide to drown me.”

She laughed softly, smacking him on the arm. “Hey, I slipped. Besides, you were always the better swimmer between the two of us.”

As they approached their houses, which were still next to each other, Leehan hesitated for a moment, his face showing a hint of awkwardness. “Hey, um, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

She looked at him curiously, her eyes sparkling with interest. “What is it?”

“Well,” he began, scratching the back of his neck nervously, “I’ve been keeping a fish in my room. I named it after you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise and amusement. “Really? That’s... actually really sweet.”

He nodded, his cheeks slightly flushed. “Yeah. I guess I’ve been missing you a lot, and naming the fish after you seemed like a good way to keep you close.”

Y/n puts a teasing smile on. “Awww, you missed me that much, Kim Donghyun.”

Leehan rolls his eyes with a small smile on his lips. They reached her front door, they stood for a moment. Y/n opened her front door, and as she stepped inside, she looked back at him with a playful smile. “Goodnight, Leehan. See you on campus tomorrow.”

“Goodnight-wait, what?”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

MASTERLIST

© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, lxvsiick, 2024

[beansprean]

Commission from @vampireshmampire for "The Honeymoon Suite" - pls read this fic it's so cute

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Shot from the bottom of a flight of switchback wooden stairs turning right, covered centrally by a dark green rug. The walls are half paneled in a pale beech wood below and light floral-patterned wallpaper above. Under the second flight on the right is a large leafy plant and a half-obscured brass sign that says “No Smoking, No Hexing, No Marking T-, No Bloodlet-, No Ectoplasm.” On the left wall going up the stairs is a small framed photo of two smiling women with red hair standing in front of a large house and holding a “sold” sign and two brass signs, one says “suited” and points up the stairs and the other marks the floor as “1”. Further up the wall are other kitschy decorations: a patterned hanging tapestry; a large painting of a dandelion against a full moon; a framed photo of two smiling redheaded women posed cheek to cheek in wedding dresses; a mounted bluegill fish labeled “Franklin III”; a decorative plate ringed with witchy runes and a red seeing eye in the center; a decorative plate ringed in yellow flowers, buds, and bees, with “The Bee and Bee” written in cursive in the center; a needlepoint that says “home is where the wine is”; a painting of a flowery valley at a low angle, sunset sky peeking through a heart-shaped lichen exit at the end; and a single window with orange spotted curtains and blacked out panes. In the corner of the landing between flights there is a small French accent chair with a teal leaf pattern and a Grecian vase filled with pink-budded branches. Nandor is sitting sprawled on the landing, one leg stretched across it and the other laid out on the stairs below. He is leaning against the left-hand wall, hair bunched up as if he had fallen and slid down. He is flushed purple and laughing hysterically, chin tipped up and mouth open wide, tears leaking from his eyes. One arm is laid down limply and the other is held up to grasp blindly at Guillermo’s elbow. Guillermo is standing between Nandor’s legs, hunched over with one hand braced on his knee as he cries laughing with equal hysteria, flushed to his ears and helplessly lifting one finger to his laughing mouth to try to shush them. They are clearly drunk as hell but having a great time.

2. The same drawing, zoomed in to Guillermo and Nandor. /end ID

[verdemoun]

because i like to pretend every single character was as devastated by kieran's death as i was, i would like to take this opportunity to remind people that if you rescue tilly from the foremans after jack's party, miss grimshaw will mention kieran being missing and that she's going to send some boys out looking for him (screaming crying they DID look for him). but that leaves the question of who. based on who goes looking for arthur when he's away from camp too long, our choices are bill, charles or javier.

obviously, i think miss grimshaw is acutely aware of how much bill torments the poor boy and wouldn't send bill after him

if charles was sent looking for him he would've fucking found him.

so that leaves javier. i think he would've ridden out 2-3 times looking for kieran. first time he was just annoyed, annoyed he was right: said it himself 'once an o'driscoll, always an o'driscoll'. the spineless little man had finally gone running back to colm the second the gang faced a real threat.

second time he had to stop early because boaz got a stone properly wedged in his shoe, and javier realizes he'd gotten so used to the o'driscoll taking care of the horses he had actually neglected to check himself. it feels wrong seeing charles being the one to cart haybales over to the horses, and lenny being the one trying to brush sweat out of their coats before tacking them up. makes a passing comment that the o'driscoll would've had them all done by now, and the saddles would've been clean enough to see their faces in. without kieran, it'll go back to being a three-person chore tending to the herd. he had to admit the kid did a lot of work around camp.

third time he looked along the river, because the few things he knew about the boy was that he liked horses, and fishing. remembers how disappointed the o'driscoll was when javier said there was no way he'd go fishing with him - he was preparing lures for arthur (and how the kid looked that much like a sad, wet cat javier had tossed a bag of crickets at him (was it an apology?), and kieran was happy again because it was much better bait for the local bluegill population than the worms he picked out of the dirt) it became another thing to tease him over, maybe they'd go fishing together.

post horsemen, apocalypses, javier is angry. he's ready to ride out and hunt down the o'driscolls himself, to hit them back even though it's the wrong move. because damnit, kieran was one of them. that meant even if he was a damned o'driscoll, he was part of the gang: the closest thing to family javier had. and no one mentions that javier was the one who went looking for him. no one says he failed. he doesn't need them to point out that he's more angry at himself for not looking hard enough, for not doing enough, not being enough to find the damned kid before that happened to him than he is mad at the o'driscolls.

on nights when he's on guard, and his brain is swimming in the whiskey that he was drinking to stay warm (poor excuse, everything in lemonye is sticky and hot), he catches himself staring over to a wooden marker standing alone in the middle of a clearing, buried facing away from them. feels himself getting angry again, because if he didn't get angry he'd start blaming himself and apologies never solved anything. instead he simmers in his rage, glowering into the night because damnit they were meant to go fishing together.

[thenativetank]

Rating fish lures based on accuracy to the fish they portray:

I like Warmouths a lot and I'd have to say this is mostly accurate - the horizontal striping across the face and vertical striping across the body are good; colors are pretty good; and I love that they captured the red eye color. It loses some points for not having a lighter belly or coloration on the fin edges and the dorsal fin starts too far back. Warmouths are also more "bass" shaped than "panfish" shaped - the mouth especially should be bigger. 7/10

Body shape is... mostly right here (maybe a touch elongated but okay for young fish) but that's about it. Not only is it missing the trademark Bluegill body stripes and dorsal fin spots, but the coloration is way off. Dark fins are weird and the entire body looks odd and washed out - maybe accurate for a dead Bluegill floating for a day or two, but not a live one. 3/10

Yeah baybeeee this is a good one. Body shape? Check. Coloration? Check. The little red spot on the ear? Check (and good attention to detail!). The pesky dorsal fin starts too far back again, but this one would fool me, let alone a fish. 9/10

Oh cmon man, you can't use Lepomis body shape for a Crappie; the latter is much more elongated, has an upturned face, and a hump where the head connects to the body. The dorsal fin starts in the right place but doesn't have the right shape for Pomoxis. Coloration is closest to White Crappie with the stripes, but don't extend across the entire body. 2/10 if I'm generous.

I don't even know anymore. Yellow Perch are much more elongated than sunfish are, with unconnected 1st and 2nd dorsal fins. They got the orangish fins and body color mostly right but missed out on the red highlight on the pelvic and anal fins. 1/10 for the body color alone but the pattern is so common with lures I don't even know if you earned that.

Different brand yes but I was so tickled to see a Bluegill lure this size. Body shape here is good with that chunky frame and it even has the dark spot at the end of the dorsal fin (which I love!). The stripes don't extend all the way down the body, which is correct, but they should extend down past the pectoral fin. The yellow tint gives me more Yellow Perch vibes than Bluegill vibes, but otherwise I think is solid. 7/10

[flyfishing-the-fbi]

fav fish???

Man that's really hard, in my local river back at Wolf Trap? The Walleye migrate as early as January and they're always on the bigger side around here, or the Bluegill.

In the whole of Virginia? It's gotta be the Longnosed Gar. Its abundant if you know the right lakes and slow moving streams to look in but it's actually a pretty cool fish. It not only can inhabit brackish water, but also low oxygenated environments due to its ability to breathe both air and water. Its scales are Ganoid scales which means they're like armor, tough and actually have serrated edges. They fit together with peg-and-socket joints, closely packed almost like a puzzle, instead of overlapping like cycloid scales or ctenoid scales.

Overall, best fish.

[boogiestreetshakes]

When I was getting off amphetamine salts (funny story, I’m now prescribed them and it’s fine but it feels super weird especially cause it’s more expensive.. which is so evil.) I learned to bake too! I also showered a lot and started brushing my teeth kinda obsessively after every meal and ever snack and even after gum and stuff. I had a toothbrush i kept at work. It was weird.

Anyways! I also got fish. Cause the fish would die if I slipped up and didn’t take care of them and if I did slip up then it gave me a tangible reason to get my shit together asap.

They were beautiful and swam up to the glass when I’d look at them and one liked to try and rest in my hand when I’d clean their tank and I didn’t want them to die! They needed water changes and two types of food and the ph to be monitored and the tank to be cleaned and all sorts of stuff so it kept me busy and gave me tiny little fishy friends.

I don’t have any photos but I had two bristle nosed plecos, a bunch of neon tetras, a couple betta fish at different times, mosquito fish, two bluegills, some mollies for a little bit, and I always really wanted shrimp but I didn’t have the right set up. Maybe one day. Only some of those fish overlapped. I had fish for years and a lot of them don’t live super long.

Anyways I thought that might be of interest to you lot!

This is beautiful. I had no idea fish were an option. @in-omni-scientia what do we know about fish care and when can we get our own tank.

[bunorous]

— 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲

[masterlist]

hannibal lecter x will graham

rated t - 4k words

tags - au, age-re, developing relationship, hannibal loves will, little will, cg hannibal, bathtime

warnings - none!

— will slips into an unfamiliar mindset. he knows nothing except for how bad he needs hannibal, and how bad he fucking loves forests.

(pls read on ao3 if possible 🫀)

[banner by reveriesources]

Will Graham did not grow up in Michigan.

Not like that was any sort of consensus or widely held belief, though, because it wasn’t. Many times, the subject of Will’s origins either sparked passionate debates, or merely circulated as rumors. A woman from the intelligence branch vehemently asserted that his accent was distinctly ubiquitous; thus, he grew up across several states and developed the default American lilt. A man from the services branch said he carried himself in such a way that connoted what he dubbed as white-trash DNA (even though Will swore to God he heard that line used in Joe Dirt). Clad in thrift store aesthetics, with fishing as his sole hobby, he surely came from a state with far different culture than Virginia.

Curiously, nobody ever bothered to ask, which was the remarkable thing. They figured Will wouldn’t tell them if they tried, and they were right. He absolutely would not. The matter of his background was entirely too intimate and entirely too personal. He might as well tell them his exact address and then paint targets on his vital organs.

For the record, though, he did not grow up in Michigan, New York, or Idaho. His formative years were spent in many places but he was born in and spent the bulk of his childhood in the backwoods of Louisiana, with the snakes and ‘gators and muskrats and loblolly pines that made bushes in Heaven (as his father used to say).

He lived in a ramshackle shack in Hammond with his father and the few friends he made at school (those friends being the only friends he’d make across all schools he would ever attend. He left his social life sitting in the boatyards somewhere in Wisconsin). He got to school by seven in the morning, and class started at eight. There were three classrooms, one for ‘stories’, one for ‘letters’, and one for ‘numbers’, which was their equivalent of history, English, and mathematics. Will was what they would consider a sufficiently educated student. He could read Oliver Twist sooner than any of his classmates could, but he couldn’t socialize as well, couldn’t play rugby or kiss a girl (or a boy, for that matter).

After one lethargic and muggy night, hotwiring cars and chugging beer, he had retreated to the sticks behind his house to decompress, a moment of sheer desperation and experimentation. He found it was the last place he’d ever felt he belonged in.

It didn’t take him long to teach himself the names and classifications of all the remarkable flora and fauna of the bayou, but that was before he went into criminal science. Crawfish, bluegill, the elusive nutria, and the stately American alligator all became members of his zoological repertoire. The blue herons who pierced the northern sky with their elegant wings and pointed beaks. The boars who squealed and thundered across the brush. Will could identify and spell each of their names, tell you their unique behaviors, along with at least one assorted fact about them— he couldn’t make a career off of that, though, so he dropped it. Grew out of it like a ratty hand-me-down cardigan.

The bayou, for all of its danger, made Will feel safe and childish. Childish . That was the kicker, because he didn’t need those support mechanisms in his adult life. A hefty dose of Klonopin, sure, but that was it. Forever. He no longer needed all the things he might have needed as a boy. He ignored the urge to drive down to Louisiana and- he dared not to say it- play . He especially neglected the playful tug at his wading pants while he was river-fishing. He didn’t need those things. He didn’t. He smothered them with a pillow until they stopped struggling.

(He came to learn that his brain had no jurisdiction over his heart, and when his heart was telling his legs to move in the direction of the secluded forest that hugged the riverbanks, well, that’s a far greater force than any gross motor skill).

His father used to berate him for his filth when he returned home after his little outings, but it was always with a degree of fondness and was nothing compared to the prejudice he faced at school, even from his friends. Smelling of bog water and humidity. His father, probably, was used to the aroma. It was his house too, after all. Now, though, Will was bigger. He could take a shower and wash his clothes and it would all be fine, even if that didn’t ring true during his younger years. He didn’t need somebody else to do those basic things for him, to lead him by his hand until he could walk on his own; to run through the forest was enough, to laugh like he did when he was eight and thriving and ignorant to his plight, even if he did feel it creeping in.

You can only ignore your heart for so long. The strange instincts you didn’t know you had.

He was putrid, for a lack of better words. Dirt caked his pants and face and tangled in his hair, strands plastered to his forehead with sweat. He could , theoretically, clean himself up. Go right home and handle this like a big boy, like an adult, which is (ironically) exactly the same sentiment that landed him on Hannibal Lecter’s doorstep like a stray dog.

“Will?” Hannibal says, dressed in one of his more casual suits (casual being a comparative word. He is always done up in his most impeccable dress). It’s three in the afternoon and the sun is sizzling above, only accentuating Will’s musk; Hannibal notices as well, and his nose scrunches unpleasantly despite himself. Will briefly notices that Hannibal seldom emotes so vividly, but the observation seems as though it’s only being broadcasted to him, rather than conjured up in his own mind

“Is everything alright?”

Will only hums and rocks back and forth on his heels, hands wringing the bottom of his shirt anxiously, beads of sweat sweltering on his temples. Hannibal watches him with a sort of knowingness that feels contemplative, experimental. Will is only able to tell this by the way Hannibal’s eyes glaze over and he seems to look straight through Will as if he were a specter. This isn’t the first of these occurrences, either; Will has slipped into a more youthful mindset accidentally only twice before, once at a crime scene and once at Hannibal’s office. Where the world seems bigger and Will seems far, far smaller. In a way, it comforts him. In that same way, he is terrified.

“You look disheveled,” Hannibal says, and his tone is less chastising and more alarmed, perhaps impressed at the absurdity, perhaps concerned. “Why don’t you come in?”

Will nods and ambles past Hannibal into the foyer, immediately intimidated by the openness. Simple, compact spaces always brought Will comfort. He’d feel enclosed like each wall was an angel extending to him their protection. In a space as grand and vast as this, he feels exposed. Hannibal comes up beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders, as unexpected as it is grounding.

“Come,” he soothes, guiding him into the considerably smaller dining room- it’s still magnificent, but the ceiling is lower and there’s more to fill the negative space. Chairs and fireplaces and vases lined along the wall, paintings dotting the space above. Hannibal leads him to a seat at the end of the table and sits him down; Will breathes a sigh of relief at not having to decide where to sit, or what is appropriate, trivial a matter as it is.

“‘M makin’ your chair all dirty,” mumbles a displeased Will once he’s squirmed into being comfortable. Hannibal leans over him, producing a handkerchief and wiping away a smudge of mud from Will’s cheek.

“Chairs can be cleaned. Besides, you seem distressed. Do you care to tell me what happened?” He takes a seat perpendicular to Will, arms folded on the table, back straight. Ever so perfect is the good doctor.

“Was… in the forest,” Will says, tip-toeing around the word play because people like Will simply do not play. What was I doing, then? “And, and I don’t… I can’t-”

“Would you like me to help you clean up?”

Will gnaws an angry bruise into his lip, his green eyes boring apprehensive holes into his lap. One part of him- one that’s big and broad- says that he’s wasting Hannibal’s time, this is unprofessional, this is embarrassing, and a perversion of his time. The other- much smaller and meek- just wants to be clean, and for a bygone reason, wants Hannibal to be the one to assist. Maybe it’s Hannibal’s professional status as a therapist that exudes an impression of compassion and care, something parallel to paternity. Instead, maybe it was Hannibal’s unique understanding of Will that invited him to bare his throat, his mind, his insides. He nods, and Hannibal returns it. His fate is sealed.

“Very well. Come with me. Have you a change of clothes?” Hannibal asks, letting Will trail behind him up the tall, curling flight of stairs. A red and golden carpet is sprawled down the length of the stairwell, following its curve. Will shakes his head and grabs a handful of Hannibal’s blazer rather than the railing, surely wrinkling the expensive wool. If Hannibal minds, he doesn’t show it.

The space between his mind and the world is where he has curled up and built his temporary solace. It’s blurry inside, and Will has to hang on tight to his surroundings in reality; ornate light fixtures hanging from the ceiling and antique paintings with macabre themes, boasting opulent golden frames. His penchant for music seeping into his interior design, with sheet music scattered about in a decidedly orderly manner as if he had purposefully tried to replicate the chaos of a mess.

The observation is gone as soon as it comes, like second nature, and Will can let it be washed away by the calm stream of his thoughts, for it is too hazy in this depersonalized state of his but hazy like a sauna. Warm and bare.

The bathroom door flings— no, is gently pushed— open and Will is relieved to not be immediately blinded by fluorescent lamps and bright tile. It’s paved in dark marble, while Victorian-style arches and moldings adorn the walls and ceiling, as intricate as their counterparts in the foyer. The fixtures seem vintage, gold and shining, and the countertop is a deep mahogany. A freestanding clawfoot bathtub sits at the end like the fountain of youth. A receptacle for indulgence.

He’s especially grateful for the dim, gentle lighting as if he is having his cheek tenderly caressed rather than battered and bruised. A lavish robe hangs from a hook beside the counter.

“Come now,” prods Hannibal, coaxing Will into the bathroom. Will saunters in nervously, and Hannibal brushes past him, retrieving a towel from the cabinet and laying it on the counter, smoothing it over with his hands. Will collapses onto the toilet seat— he’s overheating in his clothes, the fabric is too thick and heavy, and his skin oppresses his bones, threatening to rend him to the ground. His breathing picks up pace and he squirms uncomfortably, beginning to punch at his arms weakly.

Hannibal’s voice pierces through the fray. “Do you need help getting undressed?”

Will whines and curls in on himself; his hair is too dirty, unpleasant and sticky on his head, he feels too big for his skin, he isn’t used to the smell in here, and his head is caving in on itself– he fears his bones may bulge through his skin and tear free. He thinks he may die. He’s pretty sure he’s dying.

Suddenly, though, he isn’t, and instead he’s having his wrists restrained by either of Hannibal’s hands and he’s crouching beside him, careful not to make eye contact. Like a dam, keeping everything in, gentle yet formidable. He keeps it all in . Hannibal is taller than Will, if not just by an inch or two, but the slight difference in proportion is just enough to make Will feel small. Or maybe he’s imagining that. Right now, it doesn’t matter which.

“I know you are nervous, Will,” Hannibal hushes, thoughtful to control his tone of voice. “But I need you to use your words, alright? I cannot help you if you do not tell me what you need.”

Will nods, and Hannibal wipes away the tears that Will hadn’t even noticed had ever formed.

“I need help,” Will mumbles, hardly even audible. Hannibal graciously settles for this answer with nary a frown and slots his hands under Will’s armpits, pulling him to his feet. The green field jacket is shucked off first and falls stiff to the floor. Then comes his olive button-up, carefully unbuttoned and discarded along with his coat. Will begins to fidget when Hannibal unclasps his belt.

“No need to be anxious,” Hannibal says. “You are safe here. Nobody is going to judge you. We’re going to get you cleaned up, alright?” He places a careful palm against Will’s cheek. He’s testing the waters– has been all night. Drawing the line in the sand a bit closer each time the waves wipe the last one away. Will isn't sure where he stands. He can only hope Hannibal will help him figure it out. “Won't that feel nice?”

“Yeah,” Will easily agrees, and lets Hannibal remove the rest of his clothes (he catches a subdued sneer at the khaki color of his chinos, and doesn’t quite blame him. He isn’t known for being the best-dressed man in the world).

“There you are,” Hannibal remarks, and deposits the pile into a nearby hamper. “We can clean those later, alright? Wait here while I run the water and find something for you to wear.”

“You’re leaving?”

Hannibal smiles reassuringly. “I am, but only for a moment. Should you require me, you need only call. I’ll be here.”

Will is left alone with the bubbling, dated sound of the faucet as it fills the ceramic to its brim. He hears the distant creaking of old floorboards, the hum of the water heater. For such an extravagant house, it has touches of real, common humanism in its walls. A thin thread that connects Hannibal to every other person on the planet, as detached and withdrawn as he sometimes likes to act. Will’s hands are folded in between his knees, and he’s leaned forward a bit as he waits for Hannibal to return. He feels warm, peaceful, cared for, and a trifle exhausted. Discontent. What is it that’s holding him back?

When Hannibal returns, a pair of ambiguous silk pajamas are draped over his arm, and he places them atop the towel delicately. They’re a muted beige and capture all of the light in the room, little as that quantity is. Nicer than anything Will would choose to wear. Hannibal turns off the faucet and the warm water falls still, steaming gently billowing in the air. Droplets of water periodically drip from the faucet.

“Do you need me to help you in?”

Will doesn’t think his legs would support him if he so much as tried to stand on his own. He runs the heel of his palm over his eye tiredly and stretches his arms expectantly towards Hannibal. Hannibal gives him an affectionate smile and guides him into the bath.

Will is used to the thrumming of high-pressure water against a tile basin. Will is used to heavy, exerted breathing as the heat fogs up the space, and suddenly enclosed areas aren’t as comforting as they are entrapping. Here, though, he is being tenderly delivered into the warm water and sinks into it, fighting the beckoning pull on his eyelids. It’s like he’s being lulled by a soothing, benign god of luxury and sleep.

“There you are,” Hannibal muses, and takes a seat on a stool beside Will’s head. “Just relax. You’re alright.”

He retrieves a red loofah and onto it squirts a quarter-sized dollop of body wash, an unobtrusive fragrance of pine. It’s nothing like Hannibal’s own scent, but Will isn’t in the right mindset to be suspicious about why Hannibal already owned soap that was so uniquely Will, tailored to his likeness. Curious, maybe. Is it okay to be curious? As he’s about to bring the loofah to Will’s skin, he hesitates.

“Loofahs encourage circulation and exfoliation on the skin,” he explains after a brief moment of silence. Will tilts his head. “Alternatively, they’re breeding grounds for bacteria. That’s why I replace mine regularly.” He extends it to Will, who touches it tentatively.

“However, the material can be very scratchy and harsh. Do you feel?”

Will rubs a leaf between his fingers and immediately recoils, scrunching his nose. Hannibal removes it at once, but not before he submerges it under the water to rid it of its contents.

“Very well.” He leaves it on the rim of the tub. “Would you like me to find something else?”

They cycle through rags and sponges, different textures and materials, until they settle on a washcloth that's just plush enough to not irritate him, but stimulating enough to remind him of where he is.

Pleased to have pleased Will, Hannibal runs the cloth up and down the length of Will’s left arm, then the right, asks him to prop his right leg up on the rim of the bath, and then the left. Drags it about his stomach, his thighs, and the sensitive parts of his neck that make Will need to suppress a giggle.

Will doesn’t feel like talking about why he was playing in the woods in the first place, why he keeps whining instead of speaking clearly, why he feels so spoiled and idle, all in the body of a grown man; Will Graham, to be exact, to whom life did not afford such luxuries. He especially did not want to discuss why he sought out Hannibal specifically, or why Hannibal was so immediately receptive. And so he didn’t, because he didn’t need to. For once, by God, he didn’t need to.

“I know it’s uncomfortable for you,” Hannibal says as he tilts Will’s head back and pushes his hair away from his face, letting a glass of water cascade through it. (He always had a special way of reading Will’s mind, and it’s always impressive before it becomes just short of uncanny). “Being dirty, and then wet, all in somewhere unfamiliar. Clothes you’ve never worn, scents you’ve never smelled. But I assure you, you’ve got nothing to worry about here. There is nobody that needs saving. Nothing that exists outside of this room.”

He rakes his hands through Will’s curls, fingers catching on dense locks and tight knots. Will leans into his grasp, shoulders resting against the back of the tub. He doesn’t register Hannibal rinsing out the shampoo and then the conditioner, nor a gentle tapping at his bicep.

“It’s time to get out now, Will.”

Will whines.

“Don’t be petulant. Come now, let’s get out.”

“Don’t wanna leave,” Will says tiredly, hardly pronouncing his vowels.

“The tub or the house?”

“House,” he yawns.

“You can stay in my home for as long as you’d like, Will. I just need you out of here, okay? Could you do that for me?”

Will nods slowly, wishing he could fall asleep here and be done with it. But Hannibal is making a request of him, and he’s already burdened him so greatly, both in this night and in generally dragging him into his own issues; he shouldn’t reject him. He doesn’t know why, but he knows he shouldn’t, either out of moral obligation or out of fear of slipping further into whatever this was. He never cared before about whether he came off as rude or impolite.

Granted, though, that was before, and before he wasn’t being bathed by his psychiatrist while he had mini-meltdowns.

He allows himself to be assisted into standing and then dried off from head to toe with a plush microfiber towel, exquisite and soft. Will could drown in the sensation. The water in the tub is murky and brown as it swirls down the drain. Hannibal doesn’t bother to ask Will if he needs help dressing himself— he needed help the last several times, after all— and takes the liberty of doing it for him, buttoning up his top and slipping on his bottoms, long and loose and airy. Cold against his skin. They're a bit big on him— Will wonders if this was on purpose— and hang off of his frame, giving the impression of a child playing dress-up rather than an adult clad in their own bedtime garb.

Hannibal meticulously dries his hair, pausing occasionally to comb through it with his fingers and fluff it back into place. Unnecessary, time-consuming. Will basks in the strange sensation of being worthy of such attention.

He remembers very little of the rest of the night, save for Hannibal leading him down the hall and into a room with a large bed in the center, being sat on the edge, feeling as if he craved something he could not yet have. Feeling the exhausted arms of his heart reach for Hannibal as he bid him good night and disappeared. He left the door cracked and a sliver of light spilled through. Will had never been so afraid of the dark before.

When he wakes, his clothes are folded neatly on the nightstand and his shoes are waiting beside the front door, all impeccably cleaned as if he had bought them brand new. He gets dressed and leaves before he can smell breakfast wafting through the many rooms and it’s midnight when he returns home, for he had spent several hours driving in a straight line. He’d stop for gas, keep driving, run out of gas, and the cycle would repeat until the large Tennessee Welcomes You sign bid him back to reality.

His dogs sniff him curiously, his feet and his legs. He no longer smells of fish and offensive cologne; rather, soft pine and woodland, something that would sit on the highest, highest shelf at Bath & Body Works. Something Will likely wouldn’t choose for himself but suited him anyway.

Will almost doesn't recognize his scent either, feeling foreign in his own home. He does notice, however, how his clothes and body are as clean as they had ever been. Not that Will is unkempt, reeks every day, or doesn’t take care of himself. He, most days, simply isn’t as on top of it as his peers, and especially not Hannibal. (He also seems to attract the brunt of dirt and grime like flies to a glue trap; perhaps that is why everybody around him is so well kept in comparison to him, there’s no dirt left to sully them).

He removes his work boots in a daze, hangs his coat on the hanger, and takes a seat in the center of his couch, as he absentmindedly scratches Winston’s head, or perhaps Buster, or another dog he’d (regrettably) forgotten the name of. As he lays in bed, splayed on his back and covers thrown off, he briefly remembers he has an appointment scheduled tomorrow evening with Hannibal. Dragging a hand over his face seems to be the only appropriate reaction.

They can discuss the events of the night then. Of course they can. And Hannibal will have all the answers for him and then things can go back to the way they’ve been. He can tell him he needs to get his behavior in check, stop snapping at people, and keep a handle on his sense of reality. Hannibal can tell him, and he will listen. He always does.

That comes later, though. Tonight, Will is fatigued beyond the point of comprehension and doesn’t fall asleep so much as pass out, the feeling of being pampered never quite wearing off.

[losech]

Another bitch fish day. We went to a different lake and I anticipated hiking more but I found a good spot right away. The fish here averaged a bit bigger than the other lake we've been going to. There were a few very large bluegill, one I hooked twice, but none I landed. I caught a couple pumpkinseed as well. Next time we will go the other way and hike first fish second.

[trivialbob]

Over the lunch hour (not saying I actually ate any food) Sheila and I walked around "downtown" Birchwood.

The first store we visited was a consignment/gift/candy place called Treasures and Treats. It had all sorts of sweets I don't see at grocery stores these days, things we bought as kids. I got a package of Lemonhead candy. It was just like childhood times, but instead of $0.20 a box it was $2.00 and smaller that it was in 1976.

Then we ambled over to check out the two bars & grills on the main street. Bear Tracks Bar & Grill had more mounted animals and a different gun raffle. This one was for a Henry .17 HMR lever action rifle. That didn't interest me so I saved my money.

Sheila watched a couple at the end of the bar pour a lot of $$$ into pull tabs. When they cried uncle (without being able to buy the bar a round) Sheila dove in, because those winners were still in the jar, right? Sheila too did not walk away being able to buy the bar a round. Nonetheless, we enjoyed our time there talking to bartender Mark and other customers. Another patron also played pulltabs, with the unusual order of six at a time. He too went home empty handed.

Eventually we walked across the street to Mary's Bluegill Bar & Grill. A mother-daughter duo, Jess and Jordan, covered the bar. Very friendly people there, on each side of the bar. In some large cities you can't pay cash at some establishments. In some Birchwood businesses you can only pay with cash. On Thursdays the Bluegill has $2 taps. I may have to come back next week for that. Think of how much money I'll save!

The bar tabs were once again pleasantly small. After day drinking (we are in Wisconsin!) ended we stopped by the local grocery store. It's convenient to not have to drive to Walmart miles away. You do pay for that convenience in small towns. Hamburger buns, for example, were well over double the price of my hometown grocery store. But I wasn't going to drive to Walmart.

Yes, Sheila is actually here with me. Here she is this morning in the trailer.

[panfishonthefly]

The Perfect Fly Rod for Panfish

Hands down, the most frequent question I am asked is what is the ideal rod for chasing panfish. Before I answer that question, we need to consider our quarry. Panfish is a term that covers a broad range of fish, including members of the sunfish family, including crappie, rock bass, and warmouth, as well non-sunfish like white and yellow perch, white bass, yellow bass, Rio Grande Cichlids, and several other smaller freshwater fish. While these fish may be on the small side, they are hard fighters that live in a wide range of habitats and eat a wide variety of flies, from tiny midges to big air-resistant poppers and foam or hair bugs.

The perfect panfish fly rod must perform well on a small farm pond or sprawling reservoirs, as well as tiny creeks and big rivers. It should be able to delicately cast a tiny dry fly, as well as handle a sizeable hard-bodied popper. I should be able to handle streamers and nymphs fished on floating and sinking fly lines. That's a tall order for any fly rod, but the ideal panfish rod must be light enough to allow you to appreciate the fight of these diminutive fish.

While I love the fight of scrappy bluegill on an ultralight two or three-weight fly rod, these rods are often too light to handle some of the larger, less aerodynamic flies I enjoy fishing. Casting double fly rigs, something I do quite often, on these light rods can be difficult, especially in windy conditions. As a result, I have settled on four-weight fly rods as my daily driver, although I still fish lighter rods when conditions are right for it.

A fly rod around seven and a half feet in length is ideal for me. It is long enough to make long casts on open water but compact enough to use on small streams or areas with a lot of overhead cover. While the current trend is to make rods stiffer and faster, I prefer slower, softer rods as they fit my casting style. I also like how mid or full-flex rods allow you to appreciate the fight of these smaller fish. A good bluegill will bend this type of rod down to the cork!

Fiberglass, especially modern S-glass rods, fit this bill perfectly. The only downside to these rods has been their ability to cast some of the larger flies I fish or deal with very windy conditions. I have often wished some of my favorite glass rods had a little more backbone in the butt section to deal with wind, big flies and the occasional big bass grabs a fly intended for panfish,

Building The Perfect Panfish Fly Rod

This past January, while attending the Fly Fishing Show as a featured fly tier in Marlborough, Massachusetts, I struck up a conversation with Jordan Ross, the owner of JP Ross Fly Rods. I was introduced to Jordon by good friend and fellow fly tier Fritz Miller, who owned a few JP Ross fly rods. He knew Jordon had a soft spot for panfish and thought we should meet.

During a slow spell at the show, I wandered over to the JP Ross booth to check out some of their fly rods. While speaking with Jordon, it became clear that we had similar tastes in fly rods. I cast a few of his rods and frankly loved them all, but they were similar to other glass rods I already owned. When I mentioned my desire to have a modern, lightweight, s-glass rod that could handle big flies (as well the occasional bass), cast in windy conditions yet still allow me to appreciate the fight of a smaller fish, his eyes lit up. He had a project he was working on that might solve my problems. He developed a fiberglass fly rod called the Toad. What set this rod apart from other glass four and five-weight glass rods on the market today was the fact that this rod was built with a stiffer butt section but retained a traditional feel in the top three sections. Jordon modified the butt section of this rod to make it more stiff and stronger for applications that need a little more backbone in the butt. While doing so, he kept the ferrule design the same; that means the TOAD butt section is interchangeable with their normal S-Glass fly rods.

Jordon handed me a 7 1/2 foot four weight with a Toad butt section, and I headed back to the casting pond. On my first cast, I could immediately feel the difference. That stiffer butt section allowed me to put as much power as I wanted into the cast, and the fly rod responded perfectly, laying out long, accurate casts as well as handling a short line with ease. I was sold.

We discussed collaborating on a rod project during the show, and I agreed without hesitation. Jordon brought in the incredibly talented artist Jeff Kimball to make the rod something special. Jeff Kimball's artwork appears on several of JP Ross's fly rods, and I was very excited to see what he could come up with regarding a panfish-themed rod. The results are breathtakingly beautiful.

In a few months, I had a JP Ross Panfish On The Fly edition fly rod in my hands. While I wanted to start spreading the word about this collaboration immediately, I wanted to put the rod through its paces first to ensure it performed as well as I thought it would. I have tested the fly rod in various fishing situations this past year and I am thoroughly pleased with the results.

Of course, my main objective was to use the rod for panfish. I used the rod at the start of the season, casting delicate midge patterns to early-season panfish. As the season progressed, the rod passed its second test delivering streamers and multiple wet fly rigs to pre-spawn sunfish and crappies. This past summer, the rod flawlessly handled bulky foam bugs, hair bugs, and popper/dropper rigs. Throughout the season, I fished in various conditions ranging from blustery late winter days to windless, sultry summer evenings. The rod cast flies of all sizes and still allowed me to appreciate the fight of smaller fish. As is usually the case, several larger predators were encountered, including a largemouth bass that topped the scales over five pounds. The stiffer butt section on this fly rod allowed me to handle this big fish with confidence.

In addition to my panfishing endeavors, I brought the rod along with me on several trips around the country. I used it to fish for smallmouth bass and landlocked salmon in Maine. While I typically would not use a four-weight in these situations, I wanted to put the new rod to the test, and it performed wonderfully. The fly rod also traveled with me to the mountain west where it felt at home on the small backcountry streams where I fished. I even put it through what I would call a torture test by fishing it on the Madison River, where it successfully landed several rainbow and brown trout over twenty inches. If you have ever fished a big river like the Madison, you know how strong these big trout can be.

After an entire fishing season, the rod has lost that "new" look. The fine cork grip has been darkened with the slime of hundreds of fish, but the artwork on the reel seat and blank still shines as bright as the first time I took the rod out of the tube. I have caught many species of sunfish, crappie, rock bass, large and smallmouth bass, rainbow, brook, and brown trout, landlocked salmon, and even arctic grayling on this rod over the last few months. It has cast everything from delicate spinners to big poppers, and I am happy to say that the rod has exceeded my expectations. I am ready to share it with the world!

If you are interested in a rod for yourself…

The purchaser can customize JP Ross fly rods in several ways. If the artwork I selected does not resonate with you, let Jordan know, and he can discuss other options with you. In addition to the standard reel seat artwork, you can add custom artwork to the blank, the butt cap of the reel seat, and the rod tube. This customization also applies to the grip. If you do not like the tapered half-wells cork grip I selected, you can customize the grip to your liking.

I want to be brutally honest here. Do you need a custom-built fly rod to enjoy fly fishing for panfish? Absolutely not! The motto of JP Ross Fly Rods is "Simply Fish," and that certainly applies here. I often tell folks to fish the rods that you already own. Don't sweat if it is a little too light or a bit too heavy. Just get out, enjoy the great outdoors, and fish. However, if you have been searching for the perfect panfish fly rod, I have one for you to consider. Check out the JP Ross "Panfish on the Fly" edition TOAD 7'6" 4 weight four pc fly rod. If you decide to pick one up, you will not be disappointed!

The rods are available now and can be ordered directly through JP Ross Fly Rods. If you decide to purchase a Panfish On The Fly edition JP Ross Fly Rod, you will support both JP Ross and Panfish On The Fly, as a portion of these sales will go to Panfish On The Fly. Click the button below for more information or purchase a rod.

If you have any questions about this build, don't hesitate to contact me (the button below will take you to my email). I am happy to share my impressions and answer any questions. You can also reach out to Jordan at JP Ross Fly Rods. He can fill you in on the design aspects of the fly rod and discuss any customizations you may be interested in. In addition, Jordan can set you up with a complete outfit, including a rod, reel, and line if desired.

If you decide to pick up a JP Ross Panfish On The Fly edition, please share your thoughts with me! I would love to hear from you.

[gender-critical-analytical]

I live in a tightly packed area and sometimes, because there's a pond that sits right up against my and my neighbor's property, random men (and women, but I only mind when it's men) decide to plop down in my yard and start fishing for the bluegill. I'm still working on my confrontation skills (a combination of intense female socialization, liberal midwestern 'mind your own business and look the other way' mindset, and autism that makes it a struggle to look people in the face during even the most normal of occasions) but I have recently found that bringing my dog outside on her leash and letting her bark and growl at them while frantically tugging on the leash to get to them does a great job of making them suddenly, conveniently, want to move a few yards down, and I don't have to say a word during it. In fact, staring silently at them makes it work even better!

[insomniamamma]

Maze: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (Changes AU)

A/n: Same AU as Changes. The unnamed town in this story is fictional, an amalgam of the town my folks grew up in and where a good chunk of my family still lives. Western New York state/northern Pennsylvania. It's basically the ass end of Appalachia. You can smell the benzene leaching up through the soil. This AU is sort of a love letter to that weird ass place. Reader character is childhood friends with Benny and Will Miller.

Warnings: shitty family dynamics. Mentions of alcohol use. Mild injury mentions. Casual sexism. Mentions of drug use. Benny is a menace and needs his own warning. Reader has a douchebag ex named Zach. A very soft kiss.

          Hey Squirt!" Says Benny, ducking into the close cavern of the store, smells like cigars and beef jerky. Jerry's in the back making Italian sausage that will melt your face off. He's got a heavy hand with the spices. While you were out in the world, away from this place and this grimy store, the taste of those blistering sausages never quite left you. Nothing you picked up at Vons or Whole Foods or any of the specialty shops Zach took you too (when he deigned to do anything so plebeian as actually shopping for his own goddamn groceries) could equal what Jerry made in the back room, blood smirched apron and greasy paper hat.          "Hey Benny,"          "What're you doin for Halloween?" You shake your head.          "Nothing. Why?"          "Me and the boys are gonna enter the costume contest out at Fox Grove. We're doin a group costume. Will's thinking Wizard of Oz."          "Fox Grove?"          "You know, the old gravel pit. Some out of state chuckleheads built a luxury campground around it. People get married there and shit."

        "God. That's bizarre." The gravel pit had been full of water since before you were born. Some previous owner had stocked it with fish and built a handful of cabins which stood empty, sagging into the weed choked banks. When you were little your Pa and your uncle and the Millers would go there and fish, styrofoam cups of worms bought from the store you work in now. As an adult you understand that it was likely an excuse for the men folk to hang out and drink beer and watch the sun set behind the trees and get out of the house for a second.

        You and Benny and Will would cast out into the gently shifting water and watch your bobbers like hawks for the slightest bit of movement. Mostly bluegills and channel cats, the occasional walleye all taken off the hook by the nearest adult and plopped back in the water. It doesn't occur to you until years later that you were likely trespassing the whole time. Once Benny got hooked through the web of his hand and panicked, and your Pa pushed the barb through and clipped it off with a pair of needle nose pliers he kept in his tackle box, quick and neat as a magic trick. You're alright Big Ben. Wash the fish-slime off, and we'll put a Band-Aid on it.         "I know, right?" Says Benny, "They've been doing a big Halloween bash about five years running. What do you say? Pope's too ugly to be Dorothy."         "If I'm Dorothy, what're you going to be?"         "Toto! Duh. C'mon it'll be fun. Fish is gonna be the scarecrow." Benny grins and you narrow your eyes at him. Benny's been not so subtly poking at you since that night around the fire. He likes you. So? Sooooo. Damn it Ben, I'm not looking to jump into anything right now. Liar. Fuck off.         "What do you say, Squirt?" Time off won't be an issue. Mac's General Store and Butcher Shop closes at 7pm sharp, Jerry sends you home with bleeding cuts of meat wrapped in white paper more often than not.         "Sounds fun," You say, "I'm in."

        You've got to drive to Bradford to find your costume, a Spirit Halloween set up in the old Ames. The shoes aren't included so you sacrifice a pair of ballet flats you found lurking in your old room, a handful of shirts still on hangers, speckled with dust, the dress you wore to junior prom still all shimmery in plastic as if you could step right back into it. Pa finds you dumping red glitter on your glue coated shoes.         "This for the costume contest?"         "Yeah. We're doing Wizard of Oz. It was Will's idea." You pick up a shoe from the newspaper you laid down to keep the glitter from getting everywhere, and give it a little shake to get the excess off.         "Will's gonna be the Tin Man, Benny's gonna be Toto," Pa huffs laughter at that, "Frankie's gonna be the scarecrow--"         "I don't like you palling around with that Morales fella." You hunch over your Dorothy shoes and crunch your eyes shut. To Ma and Pa you're always going to be the bad daughter, square peg to the round hole, uppity girl who ran for brighter things, fun and sun and California and look what that got her. You're always going to be sixteen. They take the implosion of your marriage as proof that they were right about everything, but you see how old they've become, the gods of your childhood worn down to ordinary people by time and distance.         "Frankie's a nice guy," you say.         "He's a druggie," says Pa, "Lost his pilot's license over it. Claire said he used to fly for Delta. He was on his way to being a captain--" As if there weren't all manner of drugs at Zach's corporate retreats. As if you hadn't seen him whooping it up with his buddies, glassy eyed and yapping a mile a minute while you tried to shrink yourself small. Coke was not your thing but that never stopped him. You've got to lay off you'd told him once, and he'd given you a look laced with pity and contempt, I know my limits. As if you hadn't seen him taking mystery pills. Crushed up Adderall would do in a pinch.         "Claire said. C'mon Pa, that woman shits from both ends and you know it." He tries to look stern, but you're not wrong. He squeezes your shoulder.         "You've had a rough go of it," he says, "Your Ma and I...just be careful."

        They come to pick you up. Will's ancient van with it's bad muffler and peeling Miller & Sons logo on the side, a bit of construction and rehab to supplement the refinery job over in Bradford. And when that shits out? Who knows. No one likes to think about it. Benny bounds out of the van and drops to all fours. He's wearing union suit that looks like bad shag carpet circa 1968, pointy pink lined ears on a headband. Collar with a name tag around his neck. Benny makes a big show of sniffing at you and barking.         "Down, Toto. Heel." you say. "Let's get a picture." Your Ma is decidedly bad at smart phones but she manages to herd the five of your into a frame and get the shot. Benny makes a snuffling sound and licks your hand.         "EEEEEWWW Benny!" And it's like being six again, Benny plopping a fat toad he found into your cupped hands, if he pees on you you'll have warts forever. When she turns the phone to show you, you are laughing, eyes scrunched shut, your two best friends laughing with you. Pope is rolling his eyes as if he somehow expects better from Benny. Frankie is smiling, soft but sad.

        Fox Grove is about what you expected. Someone took the old gravel pit and dressed her up. It's actually pretty. The event hall is a huge parody of a functioning barn, all exposed rafters and columns chainsaw carved into animals. Foxes. Wolves. Bears. Owls. All glowing and varnished, old-timey looking strings of Edison lights hanging from the beams. Jack-o-lanterns and votive candles and hay bales everywhere. Zach would roll his eyes so hard over this. You can almost hear him. Look at these people. Fetishizing rural poverty. This is not aspirational it's just sad. His judgment feels like a veneer over everything, like the yellowing of the walls in a smoker's house.         "You okay?" Asks Frankie.         "Yeah. Why?"         "You shivered."         "Goose walked over my grave I guess."

        "Those son-of-a-bitching kids!" Says Benny, "They had a budget! They had a Gofundme! That ain't fair!"         "C'mon," says Pope, "That Xenomorph was pretty impressive."         "They used KY Jelly for the slime in the movie," you say, "They had to buy it in bulk. Like, 50 gallon drums of it."         "How do you just know these things?" Asks Pope.         "I read it somewhere," you say.

        "Hey! Let's do the haunted trail!" says Pope. He's the cowardly lion, red bow in his short curls, wire-stiffened tail poking up in an s curve from his butt. Will has sweated off most of his make-up at his point, rivulets of silver streaking down into his beard, crumpled foil hat askew, big red heart hanging around his neck.         "You go ahead," says Frankie. He's cute as a button, straw poking out of his flannel shirt, big clumsy patches sewn on grease-stained jeans, his ball cap traded for a Walmart witches hat that he cut down.         "You don't want to do the haunted trail?" He shakes his head and won't quite look at you.         "I don't like jump-scares," he says.         "I don't either. We can do the corn maze," you say.         "Yeah?"         "Yeah. Let's get some cider first."         The corn maze is meant to be family friendly, lit every so often by jack-o-lanterns and LED candles. You have your paper cups of spiced cider, topped with maple whipped cream. You can hear the screams and shrieks from the haunted trail and the soft shirr of wind passing through the corn stalks. It's not meant to be scary, but you find yourself reaching for Frankie's free hand all the same, warm fingers enfolding yours. He squeezes your hand and smiles at you. There is a gazebo set up at the heart of the maze, all glowing jack-o-lanterns and candles in glass jars. You had no idea it was there and neither did Frankie.         "Oh wow," he says softly, candle light shining gold in his eyes.         "C'mon," you say, tugging him forward into the warm, shifting light. Fairy lights glimmer overhead. The distant purr of a generator and a thick extension cord running off into the dark are the only things that betray the illusion, same source powering the strobes and animatronics on the haunted trail.         "This is so pretty!" You fumble in the picnic basket that serves as your purse for the evening (It's not like I can fit in there, said Benny. You'd have to have a picnic basket the size of a Buick said Pope. It's not about movie accuracy it's about the vibes, said Will, making finger quotes.) You pull out your phone and snap a picture of Frankie, face frozen in a half-smile, hands raised in protest.         "Let's get one together," you say, and Frankie settles himself on the bench beside you. You hold your phone at arm's length. Frankie drapes his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close and you stiffen briefly. Zach was not about public displays of affection. Not towards the end anyway. Towards the end you were less of a person and more of a ticked check-box. Fancy house? Check. Fancy car? Check. Quiet girlfriend who looks presentable in the photos that circulate on social media? Check.         You take the picture but your mind is elsewhere.         "Hey," says Frankie, "You okay?"         "Yeah. Why?"         "You went somewhere else," he says, his arm around your shoulder goes slack.         "Sorry," you say, and shake your head, "It's just personal bullshit. Nothing to do with you." When you look at him there's no judgement there. Just concern and warm shifting light reflected in his eyes.         "Let's get a silly one, Scarecrow."         "Okay Dorothy."

        The maze branches off, or you take a wrong turn. You and Frankie find yourselves confronted with a huge tree with spreading branches and a hollow place, probably an old lightning scar, with a carved pumpkin tucked into it, winking candle-light eyes and grinning mouth, all around you the wind stirs the corn and makes it whisper, the giggles of everyone else lost in the maze, the squeals from the haunted trail, all this fills your ears and you squeeze Frankie's hand and he squeezes back, smiles at you so open and kind and you feel yourself smile in return.         "Are we lost?" You ask, your eyes finding his, warm and dark and bracketed in crow's feet that deepen as he smiles.         "Maybe a little," he says, "I don't really mind."         "I don't either." He is lovely in the dim, shifting light, candle-glow and crescent moon rising above the hills. His hands skim up your arms to rest on your shoulders and your hands find their way low around his waist.         "Can I kiss you?" He asks, "I mean, if you don't want to--" And you press your lips to his, a little indrawn huff of surprise and then he is kissing you back, slow and soft, cradling your face in his hands. He is gentle, unhurried. He tastes like apple cider.         "OH GROSS!" You and Frankie break apart,squinting in the flashlights from a half-dozen phones. A gaggle of kids dressed at Lord of the Rings characters come crashing into your little bit of the maze.         "It's a dead end, Gandalf, I think Mordor's that way." You call as they retreat on a raft of scandalized giggles. Frankie chuckles.         "Did we really just get cock-blocked by the Fellowship of the Ring? Did that just actually happen?" And the both of you crack up, clinging to each other like you're drowning. Frankie is beautiful when he laughs, eyes crinkled shut, lost to the moment, his laughter reverberates into you, warm rumble in his chest that you feel where you are pressed against him. As your laughter subsides into something manageable you find his arms slung lose around you, his forehead resting against yours.         "We should get going," he says, "Before those kids from 'Alien’ show up." You smile at him.         "Do you know the way?"         "I think so."

[buddhistmusings]

Today, I sat on the shore of a lake. I meditated and contemplated Dhamma. The water of the lake had receded since the last time I was there, and the places where the bluegills had previously built their nests were now overgrown with young grass. The aquatic plants, many of which were still alive, mingled with terrestrial plants that had crept forward.

The lake had changed so much since I saw it last. There were more little frogs chirping than I could possibly have counted. Herons flew across the surface of the water, and geese waded in the thick mud to the right of me.

These creatures participate in life just as much as I do, and they are subject to the same basic conditions as me. They are born, live, and will die just like I will. All the while, their bodies grow and change, just like mine. The teachings are here for us to observe - if we look at the world around us. Namo Buddhaya 🙏 !