It was born a trout bum with a broken vise jaw, in the dark of winter. Took a vacation to South Miami Beach but wound up blowing the mortgage payment at Dania Jai Lai instead. Rowed the Pere Marquette and picked up a doctorate in theology along the way. Dropped off a bag of bearer bonds in the Caymans. Caught the carp bug, if not the carp. Camped out in Coeur d’Alene. Looked through the lens, but saw nothing but words.
It is deadly serious business, this fly-fishing bit. Hence, the powers that be, after convening the Tri-Lateral Commission, the Knights Templar, and Constantinople himself in Island Park, declared mankind must have Pulp Fly.
It is an enigma wrapped in a paradox, defying mass-energy equivalence and space-time continuum while speeding around with the precision of a kitten chasing the end of an Echo Micro Practice Rod line.
Join those so close to self-actualization that the actual distance between their present being and a tachyon particle can be measured in yoctometers they actually compiled an anthology of fly-fishing fiction.
As if there was anything but.
MG signing off (because April 1st will no longer be remembered for its practical jokes)
Editor’s note: Pulp Fly Volume One, encompassing approximately 125 pages, will be released direct to Kindle on or around April 1, so be on the lookout.