The bubbles rise. Water drips down. The fish swims low. He skims his belly against layers of pink rocks, all the same size as his eyes. He weaves his way through his plant, shimmying between the plastic stems, listening out of his fish ears – wherever and whatever those are – to the rhythmic trickle above him. Nosing his way along the edges, his fins and tail wipe at the glass. This fish swims a pattern known only to him – and, of course, to his friend, the ceramic carp blowing on the sax. For all his days, he’s under the same tones, the same melody, of that pleasant little trickle above.

See you soon, kids.

By Anjie Reynolds

Labels: Anjie Reynolds

Stumble This Post