[Eadha Deora]

Today, I bob amidst a great sea. The water tastes abominable: salty, warm, and oily. I try not to swallow any of the sickening liquid, but the waves jar me about till I'm gasping for breath, rasping for air, and lapsing into a semi-consciousness. Then the water sees its chance and dashes into my gaping mouth, leaving me sputtering and spitting. Even though the water is warm, I am shivering in cold, quivering in sheer fear. Fear, that dastardly black cloud that blocks out any ray of sun, any beam of moon or gleam of stars. How long can my body last out here in the elements? I ache as I try to remain afloat, nothing to cling to, nothing to die upon. Perhaps I will sink below into the underwater paradise. Maybe I will plummet to the deep, dark bottom and be tenderly swiped by the jaws of some voraciously starving shark. I could float into a colony of jellyfish, their beautiful, wispy forms glistening and shimmering, looking so much like a soft, downy bed. A bed: they would be my pall-bearers, carrying my paralyzed, staring body along until I was a fluid mixed with fish fluid and squid fluid and whatever else had the blessing of landing in their tantalizing net of tenuous threads and floats. Yes, I could stare up at the sky, floating on my back as I had done so often in those luxurious moments of pool, of piscine. I could count the white, wavering sea of clouds, observing the schools of fish, the whales spouting white foam, the sharks with formidable razors, the barnacles. And lo! There is something that looks like me, a tiny, stupid mass of rotting tissue and muscle, fading in and out of consciousness like an intoxicating dance weaved with visions of angels and mermaids and deities.

I behold Aphrodite, beautiful maiden born of the ocean, her pale white body glistening with sea-dew, her wavy, lovely hair so long it clothes her in robes finer than silk and satin. Her eyes are the color of the sea, changing with her moods just as the waters alter with their own emotions. Those eyes hold the depth of ocean: you could plummet in and drown. Drown. Drown in Love. Ah! Can you imagine it? Love so drunken with her own wine that she murders her lover. Aphrodite the Killer. Aphrodite the raving, starving lunatic of desolation and torturous longing. Yes, it's the yearning that deals the final blow. After Love has smothered the very object of affection, Love awakens as if from some trance, only to behold with astonished eyes the mangled, twisted, blue corpse of desire. Then she mourns beyond words, heart shattered into a thousand fragile slivers. Love longs for her lover, longs for the laughter, the sigh of ecstasy, the kiss so soft and tender. But all she holds in her arms is Death, and so Death Love becomes, dashing and slashing her fair form upon the shards of her heart, the jagged, unforgiving knives. Thus passes Love, sweet Love, sweet, delicious Aphrodite. The jellyfish bear scars akin to markings, to words: "Here lay the most tasty morsels, all gone now, all digested and excreted." I am jealous of Love, angry that my bed holds no companion save a frightened-looking fish, its shimmering, silver scales shining in the sun. It is only as long as my hand: my Lover, this little sea creature. Its black eyes stare at me with a wild wariness. But it does not move. Of course, it would if it could, but the injected fluid has frozen its systems, brought them to a jerking thu-thump. That would be my fate, I consider over and over. I would stare wildly up at the clouds who peer down upon my plight in apathetic ambiance. How I envy the clouds! I wish to be released from my soul-prison, to soar high up into the heavens where I could turn from entertainer to spectator. Lazy, lolling onlooker. Light: intangible, invisible, yet illuminating all. God: intangible, invisible, yet interrogating all. So many questions?

Yes, too many pokings and proddings, to the point I feel like a crayfish in the biology dissection tray. The cold, grey metal rises around me. I feel pins rooting me to the blue foam bottom. A girl leans over and looks at me, her brown eyes wide with disgust. "Uh. Gross!" she shudders, pushing the sharp scalpel down next to my head. It gleams like one great tooth. The smell of formaldehyde nauseates me, especially considering I am soaked in it. Back to the girl: she can't be over fifteen, but she wears so much make-up, trying to cover her mass of pussy, oozing zits, that her face looks wrinkled and old, a marred porcelain. Framing her brown eyes are eyelashes coated thick with black mascara. Probably Maybelline. It cheapens her eyes; the gaudy black paint steals the luster of her eyes, the emotion of her soul. Her eye shadow doesn't even match her clothing: it's a purplish glittery shimmer that makes her foundation look yellow and sallow. She looks like she's been blessed with two black eyes. Pow! Oww! She has three earrings in her right ear and one in the left. The matching pair are big, blue hoops with little fish dangling in the center. A fish on a hook. She has such a gloss and glaze, cheap, gaudy, yet wonderfully alluring to a man because she's the type that would drop her silk pink thong with white laced edges for him anywhere anytime. Her cheapness reeks like wine not worth pouring into the glass. I hate her, hate her because she is my goddess at this moment. I lay immobilized in the tray while she looms above me with the power of life and death within her palm. Does the sight of me, helpless, thrill her? Does it fill her with a freakish power-feel? Or is she merely disgusted that I had accidentally invaded her throne room, and I should be at any moment, sentenced to the Bottomless Pit, the reeking trash can with its putrid contents and unnecessary waste. Ah, but my goddess has another goddess over her, a harsh taskmaster. Where there's a whip, there's a way, and my Obscene Queen relinquishes herself to the scalpel and task before her. What fun! She gets to gut me like an animal. Wait! Ha! I am an animal. I'm a crayfish with a human's consciousness. What cruel fate has placed me within this body? What purpose could this possible hold? I feel like laughing--but I can't. I wonder if crayfish can laugh? Does it ever experience the ecstasy of triumphing in a hunt for food? Does it comprehend the comical actions of its fellow fish-citizens?

Once upon a time, there was a fish named Clay. Don't ask me why he was named "Clay" because I don't know (and I honestly don't care). Now Clay was a good fish, a very good fish, but one day he got swallowed whole by a shark. Clay lived inside the nasty creature, swimming around in the gastric juices. Yum! But you see, the experience of being swallowed revolutionized Clay from very good to very bad. He was mad. And Clay had these two sweet little fangs within his mouth. So he gnawed the shark from inside out like a festering cancer. No more gastric juices for him! He fed on blood, feasted like a gluttoned squid. Of course, the shark thrashed about until its muscles fatigued. Then it just gave up. Completely. It settled upon a coral ledge, surrendering to its fate. Clay worked his way out until the salty seawater gushed in, filling up the stomach. The water was a cloud of rising red. Clay was free! But he stayed behind momentarily to devour the shark's now-faltering heart. Patter-pump. Palpa-bump. He left his now-dying prey-predator to be the meal of other sharks. He left the scene of the crime, glad the food chain had collapsed for once in his life. He was so happy that he didn't look where he was going. He swam right into the tentacles of a jellyfish family who gladly digested him down to watery nothingness. All that was left of Clay was his two little fangs, discarded by the clan because of the lacerations they made in their soft tissue. The funny thing is that this colony of jellyfish also ate Clay's dead shark. So in the end, Clay and the dead shark were dear lovers in the utmost sense of the word, their fluids mingling with each other. Such is the story of Clay!

So Clay became clay, and the world had not crumbled to dust. That's the true humor of the story: all these horrible things happened (well, horrible if you are a soft-hearted wuss) and it did not matter, not in the least bit. The globe had not toppled off its rotation, the earth had not swerved from its orbit, the sun had not veered from its orbit, and the galaxy had not spun out of existence. No grand astronomical malfunctions or star collisions. Just one more belly filled and another innocent light extinguished midst the orderly chaos of food chain savagery.

As I float in the cruel currents, I realize that perhaps, no, most surely, Clay's story is really my own tale. I may live off a few helpless, slippery fishies, but eventually, a shark will get me. And if the sharks don't have a banquet while I'm alive, then the torrid sun and terrible thirst will do me in. Thirst. How horribly true the old adage: "Water, water everywhere, but not a single drop to spare." Perhaps it should be, "I screw too few, I knew. So blue. Would you like to? The sea, like pee, makes me a flea." Yes, a horrid, nasty flea that lives off of others' leftovers, the bones not so picked, the hard, crusted mashed potatoes and gravy not so hot. Have you ever been in a trash can? It's humid; makes me sweat like a bitch in heat. Talking about sweat, you'd be amazed at how boiling the ocean can get. The sun spies you out, a little, helpless object, and decides to roast you like a rabbit over a fire. Can you imagine? The entire water becomes one giant mirror, like a magnifying glass held over a pinned down fly--right before it bursts into flames. So strange: flames and water, a paradox of deadly proportions. The salt in the water rubs my skin so much that boils, painful and pussy, break out all over my body. I am in hell, sheol, floating in liquid sun, a lava so heartless that I nearly gasp at the disgust of it all. Disgust? More like putrid. Putrid! The yellowish-white oozing from my skin as I rock back and forth, occasionally dry-wretching. I don't have anything inside to spew anyway. I feel green--and I am green, the way the algae smothers around me. Perhaps it is acidic. Perhaps it will digest me like the jellyfish. Ah me. Their fingers sting.

I remember the first hands: I had stared at them, viewing them as incredibly strong and grip-like. I was only a child: a beautiful boy. My mother had always called me her Prince. I made older hearts flutter at my delicious innocence. That was the downfall: I had dangled on the end of the line so tastily. I was the cause of the Fall. But who can blame me? I did not understand the hot passion I aroused; how could I?

His hands were seasoned travelers. They explored every road I had to offer. At first, the pain of being bitten hurt: doesn't the bait cry out once the fish envelopes it? But after a while, it became fun. Hide-and-seek. Peek-a-boo. Rise-the-blood. It became entertainment, my, rather--our--giggly little secret.

Secrets are sepulchers--usually. Save one kind of locket. But most secrets look beautiful outwardly, adorned with flowers and cultivated with careful consideration. Inside there sprawls the decaying corpses that reek of decomposition and feeding worms. I had a secret once, that I kept from the Fish. He grabbed a butcher knife, gleaming and hungry. "Secrets must never be kept between us. They separate." If I with-held from him, I would surely be chopped up, salted, and set to cure. Secrets kill lovers: but secret love is tender.

He made me tear and tear, both meanings of the word. I'd tear up at the strangeness and tear the sheets with my passion. Passion hurts, you know. I am always the victim; well, now I am. When I was little, I was the Tempter, a sort of demonic desirer. The beauty of my pale limbs. Well, now those pale limbs bind me too. The circle continues, a cycle I feel helpless to control. When I see her slender, doll-like form with curls prissy and fine, oh the urge that fills me! Big eyes beg from brute balls. I bought her a ball, one of those bouncy, sparkly ones they sell at Wal-mart. It was pink. She really liked it. Funny how such a simple thing can bring great enjoyment and entertainment. I envy her for being so happy. All I have is pain, mingled with brief bouts of sweaty, grunty ecstasy. But then that's the story of my life, the story of Clay.

They claim the little ones are victims, innocent, and they paint people like me as grotesque monsters. I'm not the sick puppy.Those "innocents" are so vile and vain; little whores and prostitutes parading in their seductive finery and pure, untainted goods. Don't blame me for this. Can you refuse a man air, deny him food and water? Will he survive? No, he surely cannot. So lock me up, take away my dears and I'll die, I'll go under and drown. And I am scared of drowning. Your lungs fill up with water until you asphyxiate yourself. That thought is enough to make anyone bashful around water deeper than a couple feet.

I am terribly shy. Mother said I was clingy. Said, not says. She drowned, drowned in my tears. She never was satisfied with me. I could never make her truly happy. But he, he adored me and placed me on a pedestal. He made the pain turn into pure gold. I melted in his mouth like butter.

He did threaten me, once. Remember the secret? I never forgot that--actually, I never forget anything. But you know, I loved him. Then his rude escapade of threats planted a seed of hate in my heart. He never denied me anything: and when he denies me . . . that seed germinated and grew into a mighty beanstalk overnight while I, Jack, climbed it to the level of gigantic power. I had power and I had had enough. The old b*st*rd. I was young and strong, with pliable, firm limbs that lithely moved so lovely. He was a pruny pawn in my pond. My pond froze over and he ended up dead. I wept over him like I did with my mother--sobbed and sobbed even though I was furious. His heart belonged to me. I kept it: now it is brown and lifeless, almost black. Did I make his heart so darksome? I fear I did. But then, look what he did to me. I felt like Macbeth after the murder of Duncan. All of Neptune's seas could not have cleansed away the blood on my hands, the red tide that saturated into my skin, into my veins. The Fish's blood mingled with mine-and now I am the Fish. I am THE Fish. No one else like me either. Ah, but I washed my hands over and over again; the red congealed on my hands and then turned the pure water into red dye. The wash basin was a nasty red tint. I hated it. Even after I had scrubbed my hands fifty times, I still couldn't get the slimy feeling off my fingers. I felt so free . . . and filthy. But without him, I also felt lost. Well, he took my life, so I took his. That sounds horrible, but then, I don't expect you to understand. I know there's a fine line between genius and insane. I'm neither. Honestly. I still don't understand that one day I was called into my high school principal's office. He told me something about top five percentile? It was about a test. A test? What the f***? Oh, yes, that horribly long and arduous test that seemed so purposeless. It made me feel stupid. Of course, I was probably in the top five percentile of dumb arses. I am far from smart, though I do know how to cover my tracks.

You know, I am a very religious person. I believe in hell and heaven. That's the plight of my existence. Hell is my home and heaven is my bed. Sometimes, at Mass, I stand erect at the sight of the Blessed Virgin Mary. She is so alluring that I find it hard to conceive her Blessed Conception as from God and not some sex-starving soldier. Imagine being away from Rome, from the parties, from the cool pools and baths, away from the delicious prostitutes who adore you. Here in the desert there are only a few palm trees with sand and more sand. An ocean of heat. Then you lay eyes on an oasis of a girl. She's a virgin, and ripe for the picking, her succulent breasts, her swaying walk--she's just pleading for some. So you answer her prayers. And nine months later, out pops this baby boy b*st*rd. The Son of God. Well, that makes me God then! Hahahaa! The thought fills me with a sense of importance. But in all truth, I am merely the devoted priest of many gods and goddesses. I am my Beloveds' and my Beloveds are mine. Our spiritual intercourse brings memories of the Crucifixion, me the Christ and the Beloveds the cruel Father and taunting Pharisees. Hypocrites. I don't lust and I don't burn. Well, I do, but only a little bit. And keep in mind that fire is purifying. Purgatory, blessed Purgatory.

[Eadha Deora]

does anyone, OTHER than tranquility, get this? Don't think me gross . . . just take it face-value and I'll comment later on

[psycosis]

Very. very nice.....now that is a struggle within......I am always so amazed by your imagination

[Eadha Deora]

thanks . . . it is pretty messed up, I know

[Eadha Deora]

I don't want anyone to get the idear that I'm some freakish sicko, cause I'm not. The story was and is an experiment of mine. I've never written a story from the point-of-view of an evil person. I wanted to try it and see how deep I could delve into the mind of disgustingness. So I wrote "Life of a Fish." Life of a Fish is about a guy who was molested when he was a little boy. When he was older, he murdered his mother and the man who molested him. Now he molests little children and rapes the occasional woman. He is a freak . . . and a genius actually.
Hopefully I haven't grossed anyone out, but if I did, then that's ok too.

[Tbob418]

Well..Im new to writing and all that and I must say you lost me in the first part. From "Once upon a time" things start to make (some) sense. The last paragraph was genious, for me that is.

[DarkPower]

lol Eadha I reread this and I think...it make soo much sense..

[RENA HANDS]

Wow! I am flabbergasted! This write is brilliant. The variety of emotions illustrated, marvelous. The description of the school girl was humorous and serious, saddening simultaneously. The paragraph with Aphrodite was for me, superb.

* I rate this a 5/5!

[Eadha Deora]

lol i wrote this what seems like so long ago .... and when I look back, I wonder where it all came from because I can't seem to capture the same writing style I produced here. Thank you everyone for your comments.

[Jimbalaya]

Eaha, interesting read. The point of view and symbolism in this are outstanding. It was a complicated read, I'll be honest with you there. But, it seemed like it all came together in the end.

There are number of fragmented lines in there, but I think you know that and I think most of them were ment to be there. Also, there should be a double space after every sentence and after a colon: Capitalize after a colon as well. I think "sheol" should be capitalized.

Later on, when you introduce the naughty words, I think it would be better to spell them out rather than go th f*** method. Anybody who is old enough to read an understand this story is old enough to read a bad word. Besides, you never see something like that in a serious work, which this obviously is.

I had started going through this with a fine tooth comb, but there are much more knowledgable people for that here, besides, I realized that I would be taking up quite a bit of room if I did, not that there is a problem with your story, they are just simple nits is all.

It has been a long time since I have read something so complicated and wonderful. It is dark and somber, but well done. Great job.

[xtremelady]

Eadha - wow – I enjoyed reading this story. The way you keep the reader guessing is inspired. The parallels are there and you offer a clear link between them; which falls into place at the end. The matter of fact tone coupled with moments of digression, into self absolved randomness, defines the character. I shudder at his rationality; that this is the way things are....as inevitable as breathing.

[Eadha Deora]

well his rationality, i had hoped, would not only give a better glimpse into how things can be perceived, but also as a glimpse into how these kinds of minds work ... only a step or two out of sync with ours--and it is so easy to miss a step and find ourselves being neurotic, even if the neurosis does not have as .... deadly ... a result as this fellow's.

[Ambrose]

I don't know that horror is the right category for this, more so dark. Anyway, I was confused for the first two paragraphs, so much sensory detail my mind was overloaded and begging for mercy. But you kept just laying it on thick, and fortunately, the bits of story embedded into it were enough to pull me back in. You're right, it does sound like something an insane person would right. I was so convinced this story was actually about a fish. You gave so much detail and back story to lend to that belief. I really liked Clay's story and I still can't figure out if Clay is an extension of the protagonist. All the gruesome details were delightful to read, for me anyway as I enjoy that kind of thing. The autopsy was especially intriguing. It reminded me of a short story by King in which a man is presumed dead but is actually only paralyzed and is about to be cut open when they discover he's actually alive. The voice was easily the strongest element to the story, but probably also what made my attention waver at first. At times, you overdo, I'd say. It gets too self-indulgent sounding and it's almost like you're saying things just to sound gripping and sensational. The whole thing with Aphrodite is an example. By the end of it, I was thinking just get on with story already and quit talking about lovers this and lovers that. But all in all, the story did pull me in and I was curious the entire time of what was actually going on (is this the life of a fish literally or something else?). In retrospect, I guess I can see how all that stuff you said the story was suppose to be about fits in, but its pretty ambiguous or simply not clear on the first read. And it probably would have been on a second read, and a third. This is the kind of story that you have to analyze, and I've never been a big analyzer, so in a way, I'm glad you broke it down for us. I'd say ease up on the voice (or at least the melodrama) and send another one our way.

[cheung shun sang]

very strange life in sea. struggle through and through,. very interesting writting

[creativeminds]

that was really good.. nice flow