This Fishbowl Life

I was driving along the beach boardwalk just as the sun was peeking out from across the ocean, misting puffs of red and orange into the great, dark blue sky. She was clutching a fishbowl in the passenger seat, and our single goldfish floated around in dull circles. The radio was humming some quiet pop song, and I rolled the windows down to catch the salty morning air.

We pulled up at a red light. It was much too early for anyone to be driving along the shoreline, but I stopped anyways. There were no pedestrians, either, except for a hobo shuffling along the sidewalk a couple of blocks ahead, carrying a sign. I pressed the car forward as the light shifted, and glanced over at his sign as we passed. It read, "Need money for peace."

The storefronts gently bounced the sunlight back and forth as I pulled into an empty parking lot marked by a few rows of logs. I turned off the engine and we silently filed out of the car. She was still clutching the fishbowl; the goldfish was motionless, its wide, giant eyes staring forever into something I didn't understand.

We took off our shoes and left them on the hood of the car. A light wind swept the ocean's secrets inland as we walked towards the water, the sand weaving between our toes. When we reached the ocean, she crouched down among the soft, lapping waves, and I rolled up my jeans so I could crouch down in the water with her. Together, we looked into the glass bowl, at the dead goldfish, floating in circles once again. She had discovered it dead this morning.

She slowly lowered the fishbowl and the water in the bowl faded into the ocean. Then the goldfish went, drifting, floating, into the world.

We stood up. Her white dress and my jeans were dripping, but I don't think we noticed. She reached for my hand, and I took it as the goldfish floated further and further out to sea.

The sun was breaking through the waves by now, its golden embrace reaching deeper into the city behind us, but we stood there, hand in hand, until the boardwalk called forth the joggers, the strollers, the tourists, the swimmers, the cyclists, the tanners, and the city was awake. Then we turned and headed back to the car, our shoes still resting on the hood.

As we put our shoes back on, she finally broke the silence. "Maybe we should have freed him earlier." She smiled feebly.

I rolled down my dried jeans and stood up to look at her. "I would have missed his big, stupid eyes too much." She bit her lower lip and chuckled. "Well, hey," I smiled, "at least he finally found his way. Most of us don't even get that."

Then we jumped into the car, drove away from the ocean and back to our homes, our jobs, our families, our friends, our supermarkets, our gyms, our theaters, and, of course, the endless, endless, swimming.

Something Novel

There are wise men and there are dead men, and of these, he is neither.

His head swims with wine and the room sways to the heavy swings of the music, and oh! how the women do dance! The gaiety rings in chortling echoes, making light promises of how the night shall never end, like a page of history being written with a shriveling pen. But it does not concern him - tonight, as most nights, he is a star for the books, of the books - the novel of the century! newspapers proclaim, and such a phenomenal success! The top of charts, lists, guest lists, minds, everywhere and anywhere - they swear it: he lives, and how!

And now another lady adores him, embraces him, her slender arms arching ever so delicately around his neck; whiskey pours in to bring forth coquettish whispers; all around the room, they are whispering. "Oh, how mysterious..." "Such a charming man, and that wit of his!..." Charming, they decide, in an ineffable manner - much like how aeroplane bears an indescribable charisma while airplane does not. Charming, indeed, so that he soon finds her lips to be gentle and smooth, like a faint spring wind that hints of fragrant blooms. So very sweet, as she leads him up the stairs, even with a feverish shiver hiding under her polished legs, up into the bedroom as the door slowly clicks shut.

"I'll just be a minute, darling." Her smile is ever so sultry as she slides into the bathroom.

He seats himself on the bed and glances around the room. The walls are a weary pale yellow, as if jaded of its former glory, and are obviously painted over wallpaper that is beginning to peel - and just then, through the wine that swims so wildly in his head, he remembers, how once, he knew such a room, how he ate and slept alone in his fading apartment of mismatched furniture, how the refrigerator stank of mildew, and how the wallpaper had peeled and peeled. How he had been like a mannequin suspended in the emptiness that filled the void between the ocean and sky - neither swimming nor flying but ever so quiet, an unchanging speck that spun with the world around the sun.

And now, it seemed as if the world had stopped for him.

He stands up and walks over to the mirror that hangs crooked on the wall. Fifty-five, more dead than alive, and he sees the cold feet he once knew turn to crow's feet, hears the war stories he heard as a child turn to sensationalist stories of war he belches as a grown man. Fifty-five, and he is none the wiser, and all the closer to death. And for what?

He turns to leave, but just then, she slides the bathroom door open. He opens his mouth to speak, and hesitates. Gosh, she is sexy. Not beautiful, but still.

"What's wrong, honey? Don't you like it?"

"Oh no, it's beautiful," he lies, "just, um, just, why don't you turn off the lights and c'mere?" He puts on a devilish grin, a façade of seduction as medication for the tense disillusionment.

"Turn off the lights?" her face twists in disbelief, "turn off the lights? You don't like this." The last sentence hangs in the air, dripping of accusation.

He sits down on the bed. "No, it's not that." His voice drops an octave. He looks up at her, no longer smiling. "I just can't stand the color of this room."

She laughs and saunters over to the light switch. "Oh, honey, you're so funny." Flipping off the light switch, she slides into bed and the lovers become ever so quiet, another unchanging speck that spins with the world around the sun.

The Silent Conspiracy

"Subterfuge is afoot, my friends, and there is no one to stop it," he hissed, scanning his audience from the eyeholes of his mask. "No, my friends, you are..." His voice peaked at a high whisper and he drew his hands together. "...alone."

"Except..." He raised a single finger and rotated for all to observe, "except, you see, for meeeee."

The congregation stood in awe before him, silent, obedient. It was dark, night had fallen, and a wind stole in to swing wildly the dim chandeliers overhead. He spread his arms and turned to face the ceiling. He was wearing a cape, and it flapped and roared like the sail of an ancient pirate ship. "I...am...here."

"No!" he screamed, turning back to face the faithful, "no longer shall the people bequeath jurisdiction to the empire, no longer shall the people tolerate the rotting fruits of this injustice, no longer..."

A priest, dressed in a white robe, entered the hall. "...the king! Glory hallelujah, you are saved!"

"No! We are not saved!" He charged forward and seized the priest by the collar. "The revolution has begun, and in riots we shall take the streets! We shall overcome, we shall rise, even if damned we shall be!"

A shout suddenly arose nearby, and a stampede of footsteps echoed in the great hall. "There!" Still clutching the priest's collar, he turned to face the direction from which the noise came. "The army marches near! They have found us! It...is time." He flung the priest to the pews and turned to face the door. "The hour is at hand, my brothers. Rise! Rise!!"

The doors of the cathedral flung open and through the mist, a legion of soldiers charged forth. "The revolution is now!" he screamed, "the people shall overcome, the people shall rise!"

"There you are, wearing that mask again," the nurse scolded, catching him by the arm and removing his cardboard mask, "dammit, why you always gotta run away, huh? Coming to all these heaven-knows-where places in the middle of the night and making us all come look for you? Do you see what you've done? Look at how many nurses I had to bring with me. Look."

The homeless drug addicts of the alleyway gazed at the revolutionary through heavy, lifeless eyes. It was beginning to rain and the wind was picking up. A few blocks over, a police siren blared and was gone. A missionary was leaning against the dumpster, stunned.

"Come on now, let's go home," a male nurse sighed, taking the revolutionary by the other arm, "give you a nice bath, huh? You dirtied your nice pajamas, dancing around in this back alley."

He lowered his head in silence. Then, a slight grin crept across his face. The soldiers were going to bring him before the king, and there, there he would strike at the heart of the empire.

Dialogue with a Dancer

The room was dimly lit, and he soon saw that it was but a play of mirrors and the flicker of a single candle sitting on the floor. She stood in the center of the room, perfectly erect and still.

He quietly lifted his hat off and hesitated a moment before he emerged from the safety of the shadows.

"Hello." She was as beautiful as he remembered, the soft lips, the brown eyes that never stopped smiling, and now, now she was a ballerina.

"Hi." He rotated his hat in his hands and made a motion to slink back into the shadows, but stopped himself.

"I was just starting my routine." Her voice came out flat and even, but something shone behind it, like peonies, or rushing rivers.

"Well, um, don't let me stop you." He freed a little breath that he had been holding, like a sparrow he had been trying to cup in the palm of his hand. "I'll just, uh, stand here and watch." The edges of his mouth gently curled into a small, hopeful smile.

She reached down and graced her toes with the tips of her fingers, each twist of her muscles deliberately slow and measured so that it showed - he noticed, and a shiver raced up his back. Then holding serenity between her arms, she blossomed, her legs crossing, her arms arcing high, higher, slowly, slowly...a soft glow of sunlight seemed to escape the hold of her arms; there was a faint wind, something whispering, whispering voices that grew louder, passersby perhaps, he saw the outline of a horse-drawn carriage trotting past, and then the light adjusted and all at once he saw himself, a tender heart of seventeen, sauntering idly down the street, and she, too, was young again, her smile radiating against her dark hair, and they held hands. Upon the cobblestone bridge did they embrace, and he leaned forward to whisper in her ear a promise of forever.

Her arms gracefully parted the arc and floated down, and he blinked. It was such a long time ago; how strange that these forgotten memories came swimming back to him now. He silently resolved to watch her routine attentively and stop straying into the past. She turned, her left leg stretching back, her right leg bending, until she faced him, and her arm drifted, drifted down until it led from her face to his and he saw, in that instant, a blinding light, the light of a train cutting through the overcast, the train, as it thundered towards the station. Her arms continued to fall and he saw the waving arms, heard the hurried voices, the train was approaching! She suddenly lifted a foot and - sprang! Flying suitcases, loose papers raining from the heavens; the train had barely reached the station when the crowd flooded forth, swallowing everything into a mass of coats and hats determined to board the train, the last train; it was chaos, it was riot. The dust only settled as she landed her leap, and he saw himself, nineteen now, clamoring upon the railings of the caboose as the train began desperately chugging off, leaving in its wake a trail of chasing, crying people. He was going to be saved, but he was going, going...he looked back at the platform and saw her running, running after the train, as fast as her skinny legs would take her, but it wasn't fast enough, and she was growing smaller, smaller, further and further from his outstretched arm. He felt his eyes sting with loss, his mouth screaming something, nothings, into the dark, but she could not hear him.

She was facing him still, and he felt his knees trembling. With silent poise, she arched her neck to the side and drew her arms back together at the center of her chest. Then she swiveled her neck back to face him. He looked into her eyes and saw that they were ablaze, a furious, scorching intensity that crackled and singed. The fire was spreading, it was engulfing everything, the dull grey concrete buildings, the abandoned cars, the piles of scrap wood. He stumbled backwards and watched her limbs extend, the people running in terror, the hopelessness of it all. Her right foot spun on the floor and he heard the screams of the wounded, crying for their families, their friends, their lovers. Faster, faster, she spun, and he heard the women wailing, their eyes flooded with worry and despair, oh! the sadness, for their families, as they prayed by the flooded river of something dark, something putrid; the carcass of a dog, its white fur wet and sullied, drifting past, and then an infant, stark naked and limp, face down in the black river, and how the women cried! Faster, now, faster! she spun, and he could hear the wails of all the children, begging, pleading, the quiet sniffling of the boy waving his blood-soaked blanket in the alleyway hoping it might dry, that his lifeless mother might rise from the crimson asphalt and embrace him, the loud cries of the two little girls on the street corner, terrified and holding hands, tears streaming down their dirt-stained faces, one vomiting yellow all over her soiled pink dress and a soldier came up behind her with his revolver angled at the back of her little head and - bang!

His knees gave and he collapsed to the floor. Her pirouettes slowed and came to a halt. Then, with a smile, she reached down and extended her hand. With unsteady breaths, he reached up with a shaking hand, grasped her small, fragile fingers, and saw, once more, those brown eyes that never stopped smiling. He saw, now, her eyes, how they had been smiling that sunny day upon the bridge, how they smiled of love. How they had been smiling even as he left her at the train station, wide and filled with her faith in him. How they even managed to smile with hope in a war he had ran from, a war he left her in, a war he never knew.

And now, at twenty-eight, he looked into their hazel depths and saw that, after all these years, they smiled of forgiveness. Trembling, he rose to his feet, embraced her, and together they danced in silence as the candle flickered on.

The Shine of Rust

What a bizarre game - to throw friends off of moving platforms to the cushioned void below! Each movement of the platform smelled of the end, but he hung on, he endured - not that it mattered, for it was an amusement park, and they were all quite amused; jolly, he ventured, but the British were not to be stolen from that day. Two platforms over was a friend who could be knocked off, and he wasted no time, running, wrestling, it was too easy; his friend lifted up from the moving platform and plopped to the foam pads below. He glanced around for his next victim, his triumph, his pièce de résistance - what was this, cooking? And then he saw her. He leapt up the platforms like they were bleachers at a high school football game and with a rush, tackled her off the edge. His face inches from hers, she still smelled of lilacs in June and her eyes shone when she smiled like she did now. She leaned up and kissed him, just to the left of his mouth, and gently caressed, with gentle fingers and sparkling eyes, the lipstick print she left.

He ran off to another ride, and saw his best friend strapped tightly into a seat. Whatever it was, it hinted of excitement and he leapt into the empty seat beside his friend. Two seats over, they were gossiping, and he leaned forward to gossip as well, to feed off the feverish insanity that was the present. Then suddenly, the amusement park ride stopped jingling and he woke with a start, the visions of flashing lights and blaring sounds evaporating to the still morning light that stole in through his half-open curtains.

No, no, it was too early! There was more to be had! He rolled over and shut his eyes, trying, if only maybe, he could return to the amusement park.

Alas, the lawnmower was buzzing from the neighbor's side right through his window, and he grudgingly flung off the covers and stumbled over to cast the curtains aside. As he approached the bathroom, he thought he smelt lilacs and a smile ran across his face. Maybe...he ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There was no lipstick. He reached up and gently felt the place where it was supposed to be, left of his mouth. He could almost feel the touch of her lips. Only two lights of the six above the mirror still shone, and cast light, they did, upon how he had aged.

He picked up his diary of dreams that he used to record every night's fantasy, but he didn't want to write about amusement parks, or rides, or platforms, or friends. He wanted to capture her fragrance, her sparkle..

With shaking fingers he uncapped the pen and wrote:

Oh, where are you now?

Sinking deeper into that loveless void that is beyond the end,

to borrow upon the faith of promises that have faded and yellowed, my darling?

Outside, the lawnmower continued humming under the morning sun, but inside, another light fizzled and burnt, leaving the last light alone to keep his darkness at bay.

Shangri-La is where the Soul is

The soaring arches and elegant bridges of Melbourne, I think it was, dissolved into reality and suddenly someone was pounding feverishly on my door.

"Wake up, dude! Let's go already!"

I glanced over at the silver retro wind-up clock on my nightstand. I love that clock. It was 6:40. In the morning. "Are you serious!?" I was going to choke someone.

"Yeah, dude, let's go, let's go, let's go!" The pounding continued while downstairs, someone else began banging things around - packing or something, who knows. I flung off the sheets and stumbled to the door.

"Alright, I'm up," I murmured as I unlocked the door. I have to keep it locked, or I would wake up to mountains of stolen roof tiles or a seagull flapping its wings frantically against the windows, crapping all over my stuff. Both have happened before, believe me. I hate my housemates.

I cracked the door open and a neon green towel flew in my face. "Woohoo! He's awake! Let's go!" He charged down the stairs and I stood there in my boxers, dumbfounded and holding the blinding towel, feeling my hate slowly subsiding. I remembered a Calvin and Hobbes strip where Calvin realized, "It's hard to be mad at someone who misses you while you're asleep," and I closed the door to change.

There was no breakfast downstairs, just a couple of dirty dishes. I was rummaging in the pantry when they began screaming and honking outside. I could hear every word through the paper-thin walls. "Dude! Come on!"

"Is he still asleep?"

"Time's a-wastin', man, let's go!"

I grabbed a few slices of sourdough and stumbled out our of cozy yellow beach house, trying to button my shirt with one hand. There were seven of us, and four of them had already piled into the bright blue pickup. "Where's my board?"

"Finally!" The pickup rumbled off.

"What?" someone screamed above the noise of the engine.

"Where's my board?" I asked again, a little louder.

"It's in her truck," she yelled back, smiling, "they're stealing it."

"Oh no they're not." I ran into the passenger seat of our bright purple SUV, its roof decorated with one white and one yellow surf board. She slid into the driver's seat and we backed out from our driveway.

"Wait, where's..."

"Oh, he's asleep in the backseat."

I looked over my shoulder, and sure enough, six feet of half-naked flesh was sprawled across the black leather. "Aw man, the leather's gonna be all sweaty..."

"Don't tell me that." She made a face and we rocketed forth into the morning. I rummaged through the CDs and finally decided on Fountains of Wayne.

Plane crash, crashin' on my TV,

but it could've been you, it could've been me.

We'll never live forever, but baby, things could be worse...

'Cause when we get together we are one with the uni-verse

The morning surf was amazing - no, perfect - as we rolled off the highway to our favorite surf spot. The other guys were already there, paddling their way out to paradise. My surfboard sat alone in the back of the pickup, its orange surface basking in the morning light. I turned around. "Get up, man."

"Wha..?"

"We're here!" I jumped out of the SUV and ran to my board. The sun was just beginning its daily rounds and there was just a faint hint of a wind. There were no buildings, no traffic, just sand and water as far as the eye could see, and a few scattered palm trees. I was starting to feel thankful that I was forced awake at such an unnatural hour - or maybe it was too natural of an hour. But it was a Saturday, too.

The blissful surf crashed forth in waves of rapid succession, like the creations of an assembly line man could never fathom, let alone replicate. I'd even venture to say that being spit out of the salty mist was the greatest honor I'd received in my post-college years.

A few hours later, cars began passing by on the highway above, and I decided to retreat to the beach so I could ransack the coolers. I was living off a few slices of sourdough, after all. The sand was empty, save a few towels my friends had strewn in their ever-reckless or carefree, whatever you want to call it, manner. Usually there would be other surfers, but today was an exception. They didn't know what they were missing.

I grabbed a bottle of water and an apple from the cooler and sat myself in the sand. I could see the six bobbing specks scattered out at sea. One of them was slowly heading back to shore. Just then, I heard a car pull into the gravel lot behind me, and I turned around just in time to see a girl leap out of the car and sprint towards the water, fully-clothed in jeans and a yellow t-shirt. She came to an abrupt stop at the waterline, her arms raised as if to embrace the wide, wide world. Nothing happened. Her arms fell to her sides.

I rose from the sand and walked over. "Hey."

She turned to look at me. Her face was plain, and she wore a tired look, as if she had been driving all night. Still, there was something...sparkling about her. "Isn't this supposed to be, you know, amazing? Finding the ocean? I mean, aren't I supposed to find myself here, or nirvana, or something?"

I froze. "Umm...well..." I ran over her barrage of questions in my mind. "Isn't it?" I finally decided, "it's pretty nirvana to me."

Her eyes summed me up quickly, and I could feel the judgement hanging overhead, like one of those giant thought bubbles. Cocky, lazy surfer...dude. "Never mind," she sighed, and turned back up the beach. For a second, I felt ridiculous with my brown stone necklace and bright hibiscus-plastered surf trunks.

"Hey now," I said, chasing after her, "wait a second." She stopped and turned to face me. "You know," I started. I wanted to tell her about the awesome surf, or the mind-blowing fish taco stand down the road that couldn't possibly disappoint anybody, or how my friends had once captured a seagull and released it in my room so everything was covered in bird crap and feathers, but I stopped. If she didn't like the ocean, then seagulls and fish tacos would probably just disappoint her more. I had happened to plant my surfboard near where I stood, and I leaned against it for support. "You know," I tried again, "not everybody can subscribe to this Pacific Ocean brand of nirvana." Wow! I thought. That was the smartest thing I've said all week!

She mustered a small smile. "I know," she whispered, "I just heard, you know, I thought..." Her voice trailed off and she reached out to touch my surfboard. "I've been driving all over the country," she started again, "I thought if I ever managed to find the ocean, I'd find myself."

"I mean, the ocean's awesome, but I don't know about performing miracles."

Her fingers slowly scanned the board, over the quotes and quips and inside jokes my housemates had written all over with permanent marker. Then suddenly, she stopped and looked up at me. "Which way to paradise?"

I was dumbfounded, for the second time that morning, and began lifting a finger to point at the ocean.

"No, Wisconsin, I mean Wisconsin." She laughed.

Wisconsin!? What was this girl thinking? I felt my eyebrows raising and I slowly pointed towards the freeway. "Take this road down a few miles and you'll find a way onto the interstate that goes East. You're going to have to ask someone else after that, though..."

She sprinted off to her car and I walked up to the edge of the parking lot to watch this crazy girl go. As she turned in the direction I had pointed, she rolled down the window. "Thank you!" She yelled. Then, as her car merged back onto the road, I noticed her license plate. Wisconsin. I chuckled.

When I turned back to the beach, there were only five specks out at sea. My friend that had driven me that morning was propping her surfboard up beside mine. "Who was that?" she asked.

"Some crazy girl looking for paradise."

"Did she find it?" She squinted in the bright sunlight.

"Apparently, it's in Wisconsin."

She laughed. "Really?"

I nodded. "Mmhmm. And you helped her find it too." I led her to my surfboard and pointed to where the crazy girl's fingers had stopped tracing. "Didn't you write that?"

She crouched down to touch the pink heart, surrounded by the words home is where the heart is. "Yeah, huh, I did." She looked up at me, her eyes full of realization and wonderment.

"I have a question," I said, suddenly realizing something, "when you say home is where the heart is, are you talking about where the home is, or where the heart is?"

She stood up and smiled. "It doesn't matter. They're the same thing."

Then she led me back down to the beach and we sat side by side, at home in paradise.