"We'd like you to write a simple love story from the point of view of a fish. This fish may fall in love with another fish, with a human, or with an object; he/she may live in a small bowl, aquarium, or even an ocean - it's all up to you. Have fun!"

-ProjectFiction

(Link in my profile)


S


One-shot

A.J Dweller


Elvis was in love.

Waves of frothy white and velvet blue curled under the burning sun, its curves of liquid life clinging fruitlessly to the sand it had yet to conquer. An eternal battle of elements, whether it was a cunning caress or brutal clawing—the ocean failed to cease devouring.

Through his newly appointed prison, Elvis yearned. That never-ending horizon beckoned him, taunted him, the glistening moisture whispering promises of freedom in its hidden depths. Raging or serene, the expanse of waters sang out to him in a song as old as time, and just as enchanting. It was a goddess.

But he was trapped. Forced to watch his unrequited love move to the pull of another, Elvis floundered helplessly in his windowsill bowl—only a plastic plant and hollow rock to comfort him. The daily pelts of food filled his stomach, but the ocean filled his soul to the very brim with longing.

Weeks passed without notice on Elvis' behalf. He was discovering his newfound love was a complicated soul. Whether it threw a fit of rage, rolling its body to shake off the pests that floated above, or lounged tranquilly beneath the squalls of gulls, lapping the shore with soft sounds of allurement. She was beauty blue.

It was a heated day that ran Elvis' nerves high. His true love was cool as you please, while he suffered in silence. His longing to be joined boiled over with savage anger, furious that he could not be one with the blue. It left a bitter aftertaste in his bowl, forcing him to swallow his rage, and left him with only distressed tears unshed.

Depression hit, slowly at first, then gaining speed like a wave before it hits the sand. His gills worked uselessly to create breath he no longer had need for. No longer wanted to have. His golden scales faded to somber ash, his eyes bleary and red as if chlorine infected his waters, his once proud fins curling over in hopelessness. He stopped eating. Stopped dreaming. Stopped wanting. Stopped loving.

Elvis was at peace.


(WC:348)

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~DFTBA