By Booker B on
12/2/2009 10:56 PM
I am suddenly and powerfully reminded of an incident when Yahoo no. 1 was 6 or 7 years old.
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By Booker B on
10/30/2009 4:03 PM
The dive downward into the murk started out as a bolt for freedom, but elation rapidly faded as the water quality degraded and light dimmed with every inch of travel. Soap was the dominant theme of the stagnant soup, along with bleach that seared delicate gills with every breath. But strength had returned with air once again an option, and the fish drove with increasing power through the murk, hoping for fresh water.
Distance brought no trace of change, nor any current at all, which was even more weird. The mystery was solved . . .
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By Booker B on
10/9/2009 8:22 AM
The complex had many small, outdoor hot tubs dotted about the place for use by the residents, one of them along a second-floor walkway a few steps from Ivy's back door. This pleased me a great deal.
Back in the party, Dawn and I chatted amiably and shared a grilled cheese sandwich. . . .
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By Booker B on
9/27/2009 4:55 AM
Back in a world of lint and random grit, the fish indulged in a moment of frustration. Possibly, it reflected somewhat belatedly, the world wasn't quite as universally liquid as it had supposed or hoped. The range of possible dry abrasions seemed much, much wider that would seem convenient or even acceptable. The weird rhythmic locomotion of these weird dry-landers only exacerbated the problem as it continually scraped all manner of scratchy stuff against all the delicate structures that a fish needs most to live its life.
Also, oxygen was in disappointingly short supply. . . .
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By Booker B on
9/23/2009 8:44 AM
The adventures available inside the tapered styrofoam cylinder quickly exhausted themselves. The distant droning of the class resolved down to uninteresting background hum, punctuated by random shuffling of no great interest. The fish floated for a while, working its gills and fins, presenting what it imagined would be a pretty (if alarming) spectacle, should the owner of the tea decide to retrieve it and view the scene from above. But this carefully composed tableau remained unregarded and of only passing significance, even to the creature who made itself the material of potential art. Attention remained determinedly elsewhere, and a desire for diversion began to glow, then blaze, then silently, colorlessly, motionlessly explode. The fish was bored. . . .
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By Booker B on
9/15/2009 5:26 PM
The fish bided its time as it gasped for breath in the syrupy liquid. It felt the rythmic sloshing as Daniel strode along, noticing the pauses as he navigated obstacles, all the time sinking further as the contents of the cup emptied bit by bit. A final lurch brought a welcome end to the jostling, as the backpack came to rest on the floor next to a desk in the auditorium-style classroom. The fish's eyes began to bulge with the struggle to breathe, and the project seemed likely to come to an early and disappointing end, while Daniel fussed with the fold-out writing table and pencils and whatnot.
Finally he reached down into his pack and pulled out a dripping notebook. He dropped it on the desk cursing, then rapidly yanked his expensive book, also badly wetted, from the pack blustering and gasping. Finally, he lifted the cup from the depths of the pack, peering down inside to see how bad the damage looked.
The fish was ready. Clinging with the tips of its dorsal fins to the open gap where it had entered, it gave a mighty pull and arch and squeezed back through to drop onto the open floor. Daniel felt the jump, and stared puzzled at the cup as the fish flipped and flopped behind his chair and out of sight. He angrily pushed shut the lid, muttering about the poor quality of the seal that he had trusted with so much.
The woman behind him handed over some napkins she had retrieved from her own bag to help sop up the mess, along with a sympathetic smile. The fish gasped with relief that she had set her own tea on the floor to root for the offering, and it managed to flip onto the toe of her boot, then immediately in a full circle up over the rim of her cup and down into the liquid. It wriggled in relief that the tea was only tepid and lightly sweetened, more clear than the sticky juice, if rather astringent in taste and feel. The fish rushed in circles at the bottom of the cup, as fast as it could, to rinse the gummy sugar from its gills and fins. It sighed in relief, as breath came in easier and easier gasps.
It heard a distant drone start up down the steps, as the professor began the class. Daniel's cursing and grumbling subsided, and scratching began above as the woman wrote her first notes. Attention shifted into the unknown distance.
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By Booker B on
9/15/2009 3:42 PM
He reached into the boat for his backback, then turned and headed for the buildings at the top of the beach. As he stepped away, the fish saw its last chance, after trailing the little rowboat clear across the sound from the distant houseboat. It took the best run it could and leapt, bursting from the water's surface and soaring above the beach to smack into the back of Daniel's head and flop down through the open zipper into the depths of his pack. His hand flew up to feel for damage as he spun to look back over the water.
He saw nothing behind him for half a mile, nor any bird that could have dive-bombed him, nor anything on the sand that could have hit him, nor any other cause at all for the residual damp in his hair. His fingers caught the drip starting to run down his neck as he stared a long time in puzzlement, then he turned and shrugged and hurried to class.
The fish gasped and peered through the dusty darkness. Its gills flailed among the lint, paper, and grit there, gaining no purchase in the dusty vacuum and rapidly drying. As the panic rose, it noticed a plastic cup with a snap-on lid containing what might be liquid. It wriggled upward, wedged a lip under the rim of the lid, and gave its mightiest arch. The lid stretched, then popped, and the fish managed to squeeze through to plop into the cup of apple juice.
Well anyway it was wet. It was also sticky, allowing only scant breath through gummed up gills, and it gave a disturbing yellow tint to the tiny sliver of light that reached down into the depths. But it was a step up from the previous situation. And it tasted more or less okay.
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By Booker B on
9/15/2009 8:26 AM
Slowly, steadily the oars bit into the water's surface and carved long channels. Hands grasped, pulled, relaxed in rhythm with the boat's surging course through the water. The creaks from the oarlocks echoed over the still surface, punctuated by heavy breaths, over a continuo of the bow wave gently sliding along the sides of the boat. Daniel pulled in concert with his heartbeat, head down, absorbed in his exercise and his progress.
The bow slid onto the sand at the landing that was his destination, and he gave one more pull to lodge the boat firmly so he could step out, then he shipped the oars and carefully stood. Water rushed to fill his shoes as he stepped into the shallows to drag his small craft up onto the beach. He reached into the boat for his backback, then turned and headed for . . .
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By Booker B on
9/12/2009 9:26 AM
I've been meaning to report a vivid & powerful dream from a couple nights ago. There's not much of a plot, which is fairly normal for me, but more of a setting with activity. This one's aquatic!
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By Booker B on
9/3/2009 6:24 PM
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