The Fish

Once, in a land far, far away, in a time aeons ago (give or take a few centuries), there was a fish, in a lake. Content, swimming along the bed, around the stones and flora that flourished in the waters that played host to him and others of his phylum and class, he whiled away his time. The one day, a flash from the heavens struck him and spirited his body away, leaving not a trace. That is the end of his story and we can all learn a very important lesson from it, though the exact details of which I’m yet to figure out.
In the same land (far away and long ago) there was a fisherman, yes the land was inhabited by anthropomorphic beings much like you or me, that’s about how far my imagination will stretch at the moment. So this fisherman, would sit at the banks of a shallow lake, crouching on a boulder that stuck out of the pale blue water, holding his spear above his head. Perfectly still he sat, sat and watched the little fish go about their business , swimming around in the water. He gave them names, he sat and described their lives to himself, every little twitch of a tail would mean something to him.
“... and this little fishy here, he shall be known as Balthazar, why? Maybe because it’s the shape of his scales, the way they catch the sun, he’s a pretty one for sure. I’m sure the lady fishes dig him.”
Balthazar swam around in his little pool of discontent, he was fucked, he’d just about managed to drag himself out of bed half an hour lat and now he was so going to be late for office. He sleepily swam his way to the nearest weed that looked remotely edible and gave it a quick nibble.
“Ugh what crap, well no time now for anything fancy, will pick up a fly or two at about noon I guess”.
He managed to reach the school just as they were doing their fourth lap of the course designated for the day. They flicked in perfect unison, “left, right, now double time, fifteen degrees up, now against the current, work folks, work. You, you, the late one, fit yourself somewhere at the back, I’ll have a word with you later”.
“Damn that Ali, he’s managed to get in next to Radha, the bastard, just because his father could afford to pay to have his scales chromed, he thinks all the ladies will fall for him, I’ll show him.”
Just then a loud shout can be heard from across the water, “Balthazar, get back here, what are you doing with that spear?”
“Coming Maa...” shouted the fisherman, “Look alert, shouted the fish leading the school”.
With a twist an a leap, the fisherman, dove into the water, the fish scattering under his shadow as he passed over them. With long strokes, he drew his brown skinny body through the water heading to the shore where a heavy set woman could be seen gesticulating in anger, one hand over her head, the other swinging at her side, a thick leather leash clenched in the fist.
Later in the evening, leashed to the veranda by his neck, Balthazar knelt over the ground, over an ant hill, he watched the busy little buggers go about their work, frantically dragging biting, dragging, feelers waggling and their tiny little feet whirring, left, right, left, march, stomp, dig. Head held low, scouring the earth some in disciplined lines, others, randomly seeking out new scents.
He enjoyed drawing lines in the earth through their columns, interrupting their progress, then watching them flow from that point outwards and inwards again till they picked up the trail. Try as he might, he could never interrupt it too long, anything short of kicking up the dust for a couple of feet around them was ineffective.
He wished sometimes he could have been an ant, busy, work to be done, surging forward, ever forward with thousands others, he wished he could be a fish, free to swim in the lake beyond the grove. He wished he was a coconut growing on a tree, high up in the grove, disconnected from everything around him, he’d be so far up, so fucking far up that no –one would ever be able to reach him. From up there he’d be able to see so much, he’d have so many stories to tell. He’d be able to see his mother from up there and she wouldn’t be able to bring him down, he’d see his uncle from up there and he wouldn’t be able to hurt him anymore. He’d see the ants too, only they wouldn’t bite him in his sleep.
Thinking, quietly, he rested on his hands and knees, his eyes closed and face twitching as his neurons flickered on and off. Then as often did happen, a fit of rage. Screaming at the top of his voice, he began to stomp at the ground, kicking up dust obliterating all the ants he saw.
A loud shout from inside the house and uncle came out, belt in his hand, swivelling off the ball of his right foot, he let loose on him with his right, crack as the leather flicked through the air, followed by a loud smack as the dead hide came into contact with living flesh. Then shoving him into the shadows and glancing over his shoulders to check if anyone was looking, he pulled open his trousers.
The sun came up, the fish awoke and the ants poured out of their holes again, the morning breeze ran through the grove, carrying with her dried leaves on her invisible cape. He could hear her giggle as she passed him, like a little girl amused by his prostrate form on the ground. He reached out to her as she passed and in response, she did a little pirouette in front of him, raising a whirlwind of dust near his face. Then with another giggle she ran again, looking over and beckoning him to follow. He would, one of these, days, but not now, he had to get back to his fish, get back to the lake somehow, he had to see if anything had transpired since the afternoon of the day before.
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Will anything transpire? Will I actually manage to beat myself back into the chair to continue this, will I stop taking out my anger on fictitious characters?
Who knows?
El Oh El