A Fishy Relationship

A impromptu short story completed for my creative writing class, where I partnered with  avid writer Becca Lynn. Our prompt was on a relationship, with the incorporation of a goldfish somewhere in the story. 

 

John and I never seemed like a couple that would break up over something so trivial. One day, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to leave him. I had to get out. He came home from work one day, and I don’t know…I lost it.

“I hate its bulging eyes and its white flecked scales and the round bowl that you have it in. It’s so oddly placed on that dresser, look at it…next to your dying plant that you refuse to water,” I paused, taking in the deer-in-the-headlights look on his face.

I continued my rant, watching him set down his briefcase and take a step back. Was he afraid of me?

“You never forget to feed the fish though. It swims around, in its pathetic prison—waiting for you to feed it!”

My voice echoed in our apartment. Thank goodness the window was closed. I’m sure the neighbors would be scared to hear such a fight from what they thought was a forever-in-love couple. They didn’t know about the fish.

“Jodi, no,” John mumbled.  “Why are you saying these things?  Where did all of this come from?  You know how much this fish means to me!”

I heard what he said but I didn’t care. I kept thinking about the fish, glancing over to the bowl with a sick feeling in my stomach. It’s not the fish, although, it was a little. The fish is just simple and boring. I don’t see a point in something that swims around, never changing its path, always remaining a sad, little orange creature that lives in a comfortable home on top of a comfortable dresser.

But he loved that fish. I could tell he was about to cry, or tell me why the fish meant something to him.  He took a step closer to me, his eyes glazing over and his eyebrows quivering up and down in confusion.

“Jodi, I just don’t understand.  We have been through so much together and now you’re getting worked up over a fish?”

He kept looking at me in those wide eyes, searching for any ounce of sympathy that I wasn’t willing to give him.

“I love you, Jodi, don’t you get it?  You make me so happy.  I would change for you, I really would.  I just love my fish so much.  I would do anything for you, as long as I can keep my fish.  You know you love coming home from work and seeing her swimming around in her little bowl chasing bubbles around in the water.”

He was running out of breath but didn’t give up.

“Well,” he swallowed.  “Now you’re the bubbles and I’m the fish and I’m chasing you.  Eventually she gets bored of chasing her bubbles but I could never get bored of chasing you.  I promise.  All I ask is that we keep her!  I wish you could see how much this would mean to me.  I want to swim through life together, with you, forever, Jodi.”

I looked down at the floor and took a deep breath.  I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

“John, I can’t remain in a place created upon routine, each day the same thing,” I saw his mouth quiver.

“Jodi!  It’s a fish!  Just a fish!  One of the most simple, easy-going creatures on the planet!  You don’t even have to take care of her—”

“You bet I don’t take care of that thing!” I interrupted, shouting a little louder than I intended.

“Then why does it matter to you?” he demanded.  “This fish completes me.  I love her.  But I love you more!  Believe me when I say this, Jodi, I love you, and you mean the world to me.  I just need both of you in my life.”

He stood waiting for me to say something, probably hoping I wouldn’t go on about the fish. I had to continue.

“Each swim around the tank is just another day for that fish. You can’t even give the fish different color rocks at the bottom of her tank, remember? I suggested those purple rocks, at least give her a chance to have a change in scenery.”

I sat on the bed, looking away from the fish and John’s face as he desperately searched for air. Like a fish, I thought.

“You know what, I feel sorry for that fish. He’ll never get that from you: change. Life will stay the same, just like our relationship.”

I stood up and walked toward the window, my back is again to the fish, and to John.

I stared out the window and wished to say something else but I was lost. I was swimming in my own pool of frustration. I tried to understand what he was saying, but I only hated him more. I walked to the door and saw him hold out his hand.

“I never wanted the life of a goldfish,” I whisper, and I was gone.

 

 

 

Unhappy

A snow globe held

tiny fragile plastic

specs of white

and shiny glitter

in a slushy sort of

watery membrane,

mixed in a liquid

that bubbles to the top

when shaken.

A miniature tree rests

next to a cobblestone house

with a red door and

checkered windows.

Something feels the need

to interrupt its stillness

and the settled snow and

shiny bits that look so tempting.

The whiteness rises to the top

and cascades around the

baby building.

Everything swirls

and it looks silent

and serene but it’s

really just chaos.

It’s shaken twice more and

then it’s allowed to rest,

but the tree

leaks teardrops

and the house

is horrified

and suddenly

the snow seems

dull and the glitter

doesn’t shine and all

this entire bubbled-up scene

wants is a moments rest,

some peace to forget

it’s constantly being

disturbed.

Summer Swimming

She wondered

With one quick thought

Who he was

And where was he going

Becoming quickly familiar with

His sun-kissed curly hair

And eyes of baby algae;

The kind that floats on

A warm lake

Late in the afternoon

Only for a moment she allowed

Her tanned skin to

Submerge in their coolness

And she wanted to never

Return to the surface

But she could only hold her

Breath for so long

Finding it was realistic

For her to float

In some comfortable

Puddle of water

She soon became familiar

With distance

And her inability

To swim

But she remembered

Him and the summer’s past

And she found a way

To stop treading,

Hold her breath

And jump in deep,

Happily never

Reemerging.

An East and West Egg Love

Across the ocean I see the green light

My eyes peering through the darkness

Hoping for a day when our love can unite

And thinking it is more than blindness

Hold me until you see my train depart

Whisper secrets for only me to hear

I promise to be strong when we part

If you swear to rid yourself of your fear

Every girl will become a beautiful fool

But that is the best that we can do

Because we see the world and how it’s cruel

I know my feelings for you are true

But parties and gifts mean nothing to me

Only your trust of what this love should be.

Frigid

 

A house built with ice

Sits frozen on what could be

A familial street

Those that reside inside

Wish for warmth

But instead given

Cold glances and are

Forced to look past the

Barbed wire that

Entangles the front porch and

Stretches before the doorway

Where a house mat tries to

Welcome in guests that are

Never allowed past the corridor

Careful breaths are taken and

Held in, only to be released

Seeing each molecule of

Gas float and disappear in an instant

It takes so long to breathe but

Seconds to remind us that we walk a

Thin cable between living

And just making it by

But sometimes breathing inside of

This wasteland of

Tundra bricks and mortar

Is the only thing that stops the patients from

Losing what is left of their minds

Still, they forget they have

Slippery tongues and they

Accidentally allow

Ungrateful words, regrettably exchanged

Icicles that hang

Shatter like the

Broken bits of inhabitants,

Those that sit and wait

Wondering what will set off a

Fire that aims to burn down

The ice-house

 

Burning, it melts

Goodhearted laughs

Board games and clean dishes

No matter—it can be put out

With a headshake and

A whisper,

“What’s the point of going on”

Bile rises in two or maybe three throats

But no one can release the tension

They hold inside every half-hour

The ice always returns

Unbreakable and surviving

With elements of

Pretend prayers and frozen water and

Flames that can be put out by

Tears of twelve-year-olds and

Closed doors that no key can open

The prisoners shiver silently

And hope that one day they

Can destroy the ice that

Has been attempting to hold

Everyone together

Table for Two

Mexican melodies

Mixed with knives and forks

Against white porcelain plates

As leftover sun makes its way

Into the room where we sit

Spice and salt

And sipping sangria

Watching resting candles

On wooden tabletops

Our flame flickers the fastest

Illuminating our

Intertwined hands

Three glasses in and

We’re feeling warm and sweet

Talking loudly

And enjoying village atmosphere

I want to stand up

And sway, unsure

If it’s the wine

Or the bliss of

Having you with me

They always say,

“It takes two to tango”

And as you let me

Grab your hand and

Try to keep a tempo

I realize it only takes one

To make a soul dance

When Roots Turn Into Roads

We had dreams

tucked neatly in

our back-pockets,

and we set off

toward the neon lights

and sky beasts.

The stars were our shields

and our whispers cut like

a steel sort of sword.

There is passion on the

tips of our tongues

and loud heartbeats

deep in our throats.

I see a tree

that splits its trunk,

and it spills out

coarse gravel and macadam.

Each gnarled, knotty branch

curves and beckons me

to take a different path.

The roots expand

and push through placid

pavements.

Our walk continues,

with footsteps crunching

the leaves of a home

I’ve been wanting to forget.

But the cobblestones

become cab lights,

and the swing sets become

shiny street signs,

and I understand

the romance of

creative minds

will require only train fares

and intertwined

arms.

Focus

Flecks of dandelion yellow,

In a crystalline dew drop,

The reflection of a light that’s low,

Shows a green that makes my thoughts stop.

Honey hair grazes freckled skin,

Creating a canopy,

Surrounding two pools to dive in,

And moonlight that wants to take me.

I caress his unmarked shore,

Focusing on fluttering water,

Restless of knowing I’ll need more,

Of these colors that bring me farther.

On land, the passion in his face,

Is something I cannot erase.

 

In His Sleep

She listens to

the low hum

of a hotel fan,

with her head

balanced between

the soft platform

of his chest

and the space

under his arm.

They are together but

she sneaks out of bed

to look at the

cracks of evening

glow and his resting eyes.

She tries not to disturb

his obvious and

comfortable sleep, and

as if he heard her thoughts

he stirs,

“What are you doing?”

he asks her with

remains of dreams in

his garden green eyes.

She answers with a simplistic

smile and crawls back to

the spot she shared with him,

stroking his tired skin and

thinking about how

there is even romance in

the questions he asks her.

Destination

I sit alone in a vacant train station, but its vacancy is only my perception. It is semi-crowded, yet I have this feeling that everyone seems to be far away from me. I try to occupy my mind, but the lingering smell of oiled tracks and trash that has yet to be emptied only adds to the lump in my throat. My iPod shuffles music, and I have the urge to turn it off because every song pulls his face into my mind.

I hope for my train to come on time, anything to get me off of the cold bench that I sit on alone. I’m surrounded by hand-holders, married couples, and young lovers. I avoid looking at them, and instead glance at the clock that seems to keep saying 12:47 p.m. There are billboards across the track that I begin to take notice of, and I realize I’m doing more than just surveying what is around me.

The advertisement I focus on is for affordable health coverage, emphasizing that if I have this insurance, I can “live fearless.” The point is obvious. I’m supposed to think that if I get this health insurance, I can surf the seas, jump off of cliffs, explore the world, or be as reckless as I possibly can. I can live fearless with nothing to worry about.

I realize how often I worry as I stare at this advertisement. I worry about this idea of being fearless. I worry about my life in two years, I worry about where my family will go, I worry about my friends and what road they take, I worry about money and grades and opening my heart to someone new.

I hate worrying, and I hate using expressions about the heart because it seems cliché. The heart is just an organ that beats and pumps blood and keeps us living. So frequently we talk about the heart in pain, the heart swelling, the heart flipping and turning, the heart growing warm, the heart feeling love, his sympathetic heart, her aching heart.

Their hearts beating.

Still waiting for the clock to turn to 1:16 p.m., I picture his face, again, in the window as his train started to pull away from where I stood. My heart feels like it’s breaking, I thought. If my heart feels like it’s breaking, then does that mean being with him is when it is whole? Does it mean my heart is complete when I am with him?

My train pulls up, interrupting the thoughts I had. I still do not know if I can be fearless, but perhaps with him in my life I can begin to have courage and forget about being afraid.

I sometimes wonder if I will find the answers I am looking for. But, in this moment, I am sure of one thing, and that is that I am ready for a new destination.