It flops upon the deck, so desperately trying to gulp air, just to feel that cool, cool, sea water once again flowing through its gills. To extract a breath…even if just for the moment, just one more time…just a breath…a breath of air…one breath of oxygen, of life, from water. But there is no water, only air…just air.
Fish cringes at the sight of the hand, the hand which feeds it—and that's it, the hand, that of its captor as he grasps its tail, lifts, lifts high—fish flying—the purist blue of a sky in the background, the sun shimmering, gracing its sleek body in a shroud of gold glitter…then the hand that feeds and destroys, smashes its head upon the gunwale. The fish convulses momentarily. It is then stilled, as if composed. Its tail—the flag of surrender—slowly relaxes until it falls flat against the cockpit flooring. Fish cringes from the violence…then sniffs the remains. Squeamish, she backs off, her mouth moving as if in articulation of…then she relaxes, or rather relinquishes to… She looks to Merv, desperate, confused, drops her tail and slowly retreats to the cabin below, step by step, careful. She'll share later in the bounty, when the sweet scent of its death permeates the air as its filleted torso roasts upon the grill. Fire changes everything.
14 January 2016