I have nothing to say, my brain tells me.
It’s not good enough, says my inner editor.
You’re too busy, my conscience adds.
I can't write.
You have work to do, my boss tells me.
Your vocabulary is appalling, says my childhood teacher.
We will starve soon, my children add.
I can't write.
I have no stories today, my muse tells me.
It’s not like you can, says my nightmare voice.
You’re just playing, my work ethic adds.
I can't write.
You have words inside, my soul tells me.
You must get them out or go crazy, says my sanity.
We will help you, my angels add.
So I write.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Saturday, March 31, 2007
The Fish
I hate the damn fish.
The fish have been a sore spot since the beginning. They’re brainless, eating, pooping and useless. The tank stinks, even though he cleans it, and don’t get me started on that disgusting process of sucking up fish poop. I try not to be in the house.
The fish aren’t even pretty. I’ve seen aquariums; god knows, after being dragged to dozens of fish stores, I’ve seen aquariums. Some fish are pretty with lovely colors and flowing fins. But those aren’t the ones he has. Out of some perverse desire to annoy me, or possibly just out of bad taste, he picked fish that are mud-colored without a flowing fin among them.
The fish have names – both technical names and “here fishy, fishy” names – but I haven’t paid attention. Calling a fish Sam or Bob or Precious seems to me indicative of brain damage. It’s even worse than naming a cat. The cat probably won’t come when you call it, but at least it might give you a dirty look. Fish aren’t even capable of giving dirty looks. If they were, I’d know it.
The fish aren’t totally useless, though. For years, when he pissed me off, I poured the dregs of my morning coffee into the tank. Once caffeinated, the fish are still brown and ugly, but at least they flounder around entertainingly. After about an hour, though, they get particularly lethargic, even for fish. He’s tried in vain to diagnose this mysterious fish illness, even calling a fish pharmaceutical company to discuss “hole in the head” disease.
The fish caused the final fight this morning. He told me they’ve outgrown their tank, so he’s getting another one – a bigger one. But instead of just replacing the current tank, he plans to split the fish so we’ll have not one but two stinking eyesores. At first I was incensed. If he thought I would put up with two of the damn things, the fish weren’t the only ones with holes in
their heads. We argued about it for awhile, and I threw a few things, but it was a losing battle. Since I couldn’t win, I pretended to go along with his plan, only grumbling enough for him not to get suspicious. I had a plan of my own.
The fish had to die. After he left for work, I got out an old clock radio, plugged it in next to the fish tank then held it in front of them. That’s how I know fish can’t give dirty looks. After giving them a moment to prepare, I ceremoniously dropped the radio into the tank. I even hummed taps, for atmosphere. When the radio hit the water, I was hoping for sparks, but nothing seemed to happen. Nothing, that is, until one by one the fish started to float. I almost felt bad, seeing all the floating, scaly bodies with their still mouths and cloudy eyes. Then I remembered…
I hate the damn fish.
*****
This little short story has been very surprising. I wrote it in about 30 minutes on a whim one afternoon, then took it to my writers' group, and they all loved it. They loved it enough that I decided to enter it in a mini short story contest, which required me to cut it down from its original 779 words to its current 499. Although I wasn't convinced the new shortened version was as good as the original, I entered it anyway, and it won FIRST PLACE!! I actually made $25 on this cute little story. Now, on the strength of that win, I'm entering it in a ByLine Magazine contest. We'll see how it does...
The fish have been a sore spot since the beginning. They’re brainless, eating, pooping and useless. The tank stinks, even though he cleans it, and don’t get me started on that disgusting process of sucking up fish poop. I try not to be in the house.
The fish aren’t even pretty. I’ve seen aquariums; god knows, after being dragged to dozens of fish stores, I’ve seen aquariums. Some fish are pretty with lovely colors and flowing fins. But those aren’t the ones he has. Out of some perverse desire to annoy me, or possibly just out of bad taste, he picked fish that are mud-colored without a flowing fin among them.
The fish have names – both technical names and “here fishy, fishy” names – but I haven’t paid attention. Calling a fish Sam or Bob or Precious seems to me indicative of brain damage. It’s even worse than naming a cat. The cat probably won’t come when you call it, but at least it might give you a dirty look. Fish aren’t even capable of giving dirty looks. If they were, I’d know it.
The fish aren’t totally useless, though. For years, when he pissed me off, I poured the dregs of my morning coffee into the tank. Once caffeinated, the fish are still brown and ugly, but at least they flounder around entertainingly. After about an hour, though, they get particularly lethargic, even for fish. He’s tried in vain to diagnose this mysterious fish illness, even calling a fish pharmaceutical company to discuss “hole in the head” disease.
The fish caused the final fight this morning. He told me they’ve outgrown their tank, so he’s getting another one – a bigger one. But instead of just replacing the current tank, he plans to split the fish so we’ll have not one but two stinking eyesores. At first I was incensed. If he thought I would put up with two of the damn things, the fish weren’t the only ones with holes in
their heads. We argued about it for awhile, and I threw a few things, but it was a losing battle. Since I couldn’t win, I pretended to go along with his plan, only grumbling enough for him not to get suspicious. I had a plan of my own.
The fish had to die. After he left for work, I got out an old clock radio, plugged it in next to the fish tank then held it in front of them. That’s how I know fish can’t give dirty looks. After giving them a moment to prepare, I ceremoniously dropped the radio into the tank. I even hummed taps, for atmosphere. When the radio hit the water, I was hoping for sparks, but nothing seemed to happen. Nothing, that is, until one by one the fish started to float. I almost felt bad, seeing all the floating, scaly bodies with their still mouths and cloudy eyes. Then I remembered…
I hate the damn fish.
*****
This little short story has been very surprising. I wrote it in about 30 minutes on a whim one afternoon, then took it to my writers' group, and they all loved it. They loved it enough that I decided to enter it in a mini short story contest, which required me to cut it down from its original 779 words to its current 499. Although I wasn't convinced the new shortened version was as good as the original, I entered it anyway, and it won FIRST PLACE!! I actually made $25 on this cute little story. Now, on the strength of that win, I'm entering it in a ByLine Magazine contest. We'll see how it does...
