He fished the swamp because it was all he had, never catching anything but grass and leeches. He walked across a log and stopped at a wide, inky pool where he thought a fish had jumped. But before he could cast, he slipped. He was hip-high in mud, chest-high in water. He grabbed the log, but the harder he pulled, the deeper he sank. The warm mud crept up his torso; the water reached his lips.
He forced himself to relax. He marveled at his coolness under pressure.
Somewhere, another fish jumped, but the water around him remained silent and undisturbed.
(For those of you new to Fiction 101, these are stories I write that have exactly 101 words.)
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Well, silent and undisturbed, until he felt something slither along his underarm. Probably just a fish he thought. After all, he had seen one jump only moments earlier. His mind began to race as he pictured a water moccasin lurking in the murky waters that enveloped him. His began to quiver with fear, creating a ripple effect across the swamp where he was now the bait. He tried to stop the tremors, but they only increased. He felt like a jig from a Cajun tackle box, but what kind of creature was he about to lure? Again, he felt a slither!
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