Small Town Wisconsin

We called it Dead Fish Land in jest, though the little isthmus by the dam was more than likely unnamed. To fish there, it was necessary to hold your breath, or your lungs would quickly be filled with the putrid smell of rotting flesh. It became a sort of game to the bigger boys: who could leave the most dead fish lying on the shoreline, tailfins floating uselessly when the water lapped at them. Every once in a while, a big, brown, flailing carp ended up making the nearby road its grave, pummeled to a pulp by merciless tire treads.