Koi don’t go for worms, and they’re not suckers for bait, either. People don’t fish koi because they’re bottom feeders—fish who spend their time nibbling algae from green-fuzzed rocks—and the koi wouldn’t be tempted by the likes of a flashing hook with a bit of dangling chum. People don’t noodle koi either, because koi aren’t catfish. Koi are ornamental, fat goldfish—sleek orange and yellow darts of flashing scales—and they live peaceful, dull lives, gliding in slow circles around decorative ponds.
My grandfather, always oblivious to such demoralizing information, decided one day to take my brother and me fishing in the Houston city park. There swam the koi, and there stood us, gazing down at their yellow fins batting the water. Grandad smiled, set up his plastic lawn chair, cracked the tab of a fizzy orange soda, and cast his line into the water.
I was eight years old, my brother was twelve, and all that morning we’d dug up earthworms and stuffed their writhing bodies in rusted soup cans. Now we skewered the skinny, wiggling earthworms on our hook, tossed in our lines, and waited. We waited all afternoon, and still the koi did not bite.
“They must be full,” Grandad said. “Or else they’d bite.”
After a long day at the koi pond, we gave up. Those damn fish weren’t interested, and there was nothing we could do to convince them. Earthworms weren’t for them, and that was that.
As much as I hated those stupid koi for not biting, I learned a good lesson that day: don’t waste your worms on the fish that will never bite.
These days I no longer fish. Instead, I write.
I’ve just started my senior year at Vanderbilt University, where I am a candidate for English Honors in the Creative Writing track. This fall, I’ll draft a thesis for a collection of short stories, and next semester, I’ll write it. Better yet, I’m enrolled in a Graduation Fiction Workshop, which will allow me to interact with people who are just as serious about writing as I am.
What an exciting time, right?
What a terrifying time, too—all around us, people are proclaiming the End: if not of the world, then at least of the book.
“The book is dead!” cries the modern-day Nostradamus.
Yet there is the book, like a plague-victim in a Monty Python film, hopping along, crying out in shrill falsetto, “I’m not dead. I’m getting better!”
And here we are, aspiring writers desiring to write. Sometimes, it feels that what waits ahead is the koi pond: me sitting there, at the water’s edge, attempting to bait my line for fish that aren’t even remotely interested. All the koi in the world have gone off to watch movies and play video games and record episodes of The Bachelor.
Perhaps this analogy is falling through. Let’s try another.
Summertime, and I’m in my grandfather’s backyard. Blackberries are plump and full in the heat, and the garden is sweet with the smell of figs. A mockingbird sings from the branches of an oak tree.
“Let’s buy a chicken,” Grandad says.
My brother and I are perplexed, but not surprised. My grandfather often surprises us, and besides, it’s hot and we’re bored. So we go with him. We walk to the grocery store, and Grandad buys one whole chicken, still wrapped in its thin plastic sheath.
We follow Grandad back from the store. Instead of making our way back to the house, we trot down a steep, weed-lined hill to the Braes Bayou, a concrete-lined tributary that cuts through my grandfather’s neighborhood. The water is murky and smells faintly of sewage. Green algae floats on the surface of the water. My grandfather unwraps the chicken from the plastic, the tremors from World War II still shaking his hands. The bird is plump, it’s flesh pink and dotted with bumps where its feathers have been plucked.
Grandad takes one step back and swings. The bird makes its final flight through the air, then lands with a giant kerplop in the water. It bobs, settles, and floats. Nothing happens. Then—movement. A turtle head rises to the surface, then another. Suddenly, there are twenty of them, with thin red stripes on the sides of their faces.
“Red-eared gliders,” Grandad explains. “They like chicken.”
The turtles circled, then bit. They tore off chunks of pink bird meat with little jerks of their heads.
“Wow,” I said, marveling. “There are so many.”
Grandad nodded, grinning. “There sure are.”
There are some people who will never read—just like there are some koi that will never bite. But then again, why fish, when you can feed?
2 thoughts on “Fresh Meat for Turtles”
That’s exactly how I have felt over the past year. I’d completed my first novel, sent it out (over a hundred times) but no-one seemed interested. ‘We do not feel enthusiastic enough about this to try to sell it,’ one agent told me. ‘Fine,’ I thought. ‘Go on back to bed then.’
Now I’m embarking on my first ePublishing adventure – I’ve changed my bait.
Now I have to wait and see if I get a nibble!
Good luck on your e-publishing! It does open a world of possibilities for us writers, and I’m happy to hear that you’ll be one of the pioneers of the new medium. Happy biting!