Gordon found ice-fishing relaxing. Despite the frigid temperatures, there was something peaceful about being alone on the vast, frozen lake, in utter silence save the groaning ice.
His rod was securely fastened to his stool, the line disappearing into the indigo abyss of the icehole. Gordon had just nodded off, when a sharp tug yanked his entire chair. Grabbing the pole, he was instantly at the hole’s edge.
“C’mon, baby…” He wrestled the pole, dreaming of trout for dinner.
Beneath the ice, a behemoth shadow stretched the length of the lake, patiently waiting to see what was on its line.
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alt="Harbinger of Death by Jonathan L. Tolstedt"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Famine Man by Deborah Tapper"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Price of Belief by Andreas Flögel"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Abhartach's Thirst by Andrew Kurtz"
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loading="lazy"
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>