Dating : escape from the fish tank

a short story

The scale suit no longer fitted my disposition. The fishy smell had made me puke regularly. Until my gut was so nauseated for being self-indulged in the fish-trade.

I had to step out, there was no more joy, nothing to celebrate, but the spine protesting every step, every deed as part of my act.

In recent years I had withdrawn myself deliberately. It was my choice and yet it felt it wasn’t. It wasn’t mine for the time slipping passed the hour’s dingdongs from the old clock. I had loved that sound, but the morons I used to work with had succeeded in losing its winding key. Of course, it was a special one. All the standardized ones three to one-hundred-twenty-eighth of an inch too small. What didn’t fit, no longer sounded good…

The bell struck, some two odd strokes before the world ended in a pool of hatred. The warmongers had gotten their endless wars. Healthcare had become available only to the super-rich. The disability fund I had been paid from, no longer disbursed. Even though their notifications for adjustments to the policy kept coming. Like they would accept me after the modifications. They had my back and my knees and whatever else they would find to denounce ineligibly.

Whatever had seemed important once, did no longer matter to me.

Lost out, I even quit the fishing expedition. I could no longer catch a cast nor a troll, nothing to jot down. No word came from my pen nor my heart.

The story got stuck, I got stuck in my own prolificacy.

The telling went to my inside circus, the madhouse where I had met the adverse of the advertisement. My inner lust to get heard. The grams and books set aside, after I saw the true face of their deception. The cold turkey abrupt, however, good to reclaim self-discipline. The silence deadly, I always have loathed and abhorred silence. Even though I thrive in a silent environment. Silence to me is a lie like death rides the waves of preservation, on the ghastly fumes of formaldehyde. I’m highly allergic to any methanal. The stuff chokes me as silence does.

I shot the source of my silence, twenty-seven times. Hollowpoint, no point to make there, no point at all.

The blood I bagged and cooked into a delicious black pudding. From fish, I went back to meat. Not that I eat it. I prefer vegetables. However, I sin as a vegetarian.

Whatever had mattered to me once, seemed no longer important…

The day the dump truck came to pick up the trash I felt lucky. No remembrance was left but my old writings. I burned them all. To the last one. Like I had emptied my address book, nothing more rewarding than ripping out the names of those characters that only had contacted me when they needed something from me. If I could I would have shot them too. But I couldn’t.

I had dreamed. I had dreamed repulsive dreams. I dreamed of these dreams until I started writing again.