Gemotions

The fishing rods stood like a silent, accusing army in the garage. Michael stared at them, his hands clenched. His own father had taught him the art of fly-fishing, a bond he treasured. Now, his son, Ben, had transformed the gentle pastime into an all-consuming obsession. He was gone every weekend, chasing after rumors of the "leviathan" of the lake.

Ben spent all his money on gear. He had quit soccer. He wouldn’t eat.

Michael could feel a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He ran a hand through his hair and paced. He needed to get away, to escape the sight of those damn rods.

"Dad! I need a new reel!" Ben’s voice, coming from the back garden, jolted him. Michael felt a wave of nausea rise in his throat.