The Fisherman
The fisherman stood down by the peaceful pond with a look of calmness on his face like all his troubles of the day had been washed away with the smell of fresh air and water. A green camouflage hat atop his salty brown hair surrounded his light skin complexion. A light green, long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearm covered the fisherman’s upper body. Over the man’s light green, long sleeve shirt . . .
he wore a camouflage vest that had an endless amount of pockets storing everything a fisherman would need right by his side. As the Fisherman stood upon the hill of soft green grass that bordered the slimy pond like a layer of thin green carpet, he determined that it was time to move on with his fishing, with his day, and with his life. Completing the fisherman’s ensemble, he was wearing light blue jeans followed by brown hiking boots. He picked up his navy and tan duffle bag, which probably held everything that couldn’t fit in his vest pockets, slung it over his back and headed up the trail running alongside the pond like a timeline to his journey in life and carried on with the rest of his day. The fisherman held in his right hand a fishing pole that he had full control over, much like his life outside his fishing, which he slung back and forth several times, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, before it entered the green, slimy water of the pond. He reeled in his fishing line, carefully, not to tangle his line, and placed it in its home (a black case in the shape of a tube).
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