#fuck you miami sea aquarium

[aaronsmith94]

RIP Lolita, may your spirit get to swim all over the ocean now since you were stuck in a bathtub for 50+ years.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.  

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

[icequeen-shiva]

alright, you know what

about two weeks ago maybe by now, i made a post about how i’ve recently hit 200 followers and i’d like to do a q&a again, and even with a reblog from someone more ~*popular*~ than me, and multiple reblogs once a day for a few days by myself, i didn’t get a single fucking question. not one. earlier today i posted two pictures of myself where i felt pretty (i’ve since deleted them) and nobody i actually know of liked it and i got asked by a stranger who doesn’t even follow me if i had any nsfw pictures. i don’t get asks anymore, i don’t get shit. and that tells me that, you may be following me, but you aren’t connecting with me. and i feel that. i get on tumblr and i don’t feel like i’m friends with fucking anybody. and i did that. i know i did that. 9/10 times i let my fear of rejection and embarrassing myself overcome my desire to talk to people, so i don’t do it, or i let it fizzle out and we go our own ways and we don’t become friends. 1/10 times i actually function as a human being and make a connection or at least something that sticks a little.

so here, below the cut, is a comprehensive (loosely) list of things that i like, in no particular order at all, besides tickling, because apparently both sides of this need a little help connecting on any front.

scooby-doo

beetlejuice

the addams family

the sims

the mcu

classic disney animations; my favorites are dumbo, the great mouse detective, the rescuers, sleeping beauty, and oliver and company (it’s old enough that i consider it in the classic category)

~modern disney animations too; my favorites are treasure fucking planet, coco, and... i’m a sap, beauty and the beast. rise of the guardians too even though it isn’t disney.

musicals; i can’t pick a favorite just fucking ask me, but i don’t know a lot of newer ones honestly

empire records

the greatest showman still

cats (i mean the animals but i also like the show even though it is Weird As Hell)

my cat in particular

alice in wonderland

stranger things

space jam

tsum tsums

elvira, mistress of the dark

dice

kiki’s delivery service and specifically jiji things

winnie the pooh i don’t even fucking care i LOVE HIM AND ALL OF HIS FRIENDS

silly hats

playdoh

interesting earrings

exploring libraries or big bookstores

true crime mysteries; my favorite youtuber for this is georgia marie, bless her. i also watch bella fiori and kendall rae

fictional mysteries too

i have a kind of fascination with jack the ripper and with the lizzie borden case

shipwrecks! i don’t know why but shipwrecks fascinate me! why did they go down? all the stories that went with them!

i once read a novel that was told as a series of letters, or journal entries, by people on the titanic, including the iceberg and it was THE absolute saddest book i have ever read in my life. like, obviously i knew what was coming, but i got attached to the characters, the letters made them alive and it was just like... NO. NO I DON’T WANT THEM TO DIE. I KNOW THEY’RE GOING TO BUT THEY CAN’T. and it was awful. i had to put it down and cry.

cryptozoology

the bermuda triangle theories (i’m not saying i believe sOmEtHiNg’S gOiNg On but i think some of the theories are interesting)

ghosts

the nancy drew computer games

monopoly

i still play a lot of my snes games; my go-to time killer and head-clearer honestly is kirby’s avalanche. i also play a lot of super mario rpg legend of the seven stars, super mario world, kirby’s dreamland 3, and donkey kong 2 and 3

final fantasy x in which i’m guaranteed to call almost (i can’t stress that enough) every character at some point “my child”

hyrule warriors, i know it’s not a tRuE zelda game but it’s fucking fun

same with fire emblem warriors

red dead redemption

kingdom hearts

the uncharted series

splatoon but i don’t have it wahhhhh

mind you i am not very Good at videogames, i just like to play them anyway

game grumps

ninja sex party

jacksepticeye

markiplier

monty python

crocheting

tea

harry potter

classic rock. pretty big on queen lately. i like tom petty and the heartbreakers. i like joan jett and the blackhearts.

i just... like rock. across the board. i like the offspring. i like some rage against the machine songs. acdc on the radio makes me happy. def leppard on the radio makes me happy. beartooth, starset, powerman 5000, as long as it’s got a good beat and good stuff going on behind the vocals then i’m gonna be happy. i’m way more into the guitars and the bass and everything going on instrumentally than i am vocally, honestly. the whole big guitar solo to van halen’s “you really got me” and then that bassline that comes in, that bassline is sexy. it’s so simple but i LIKE it.

anyway music as a whole gets me right in the heart and can lift me up when i am at my literal worst point

it’s hard for me to name a favorite or specific bands that i like because there’s so many and i’m not really picky about it. 

pop vinyls

good ol’ vines

buffalo wings

mac and cheese

grilled cheese

dr. pepper

i drink a l o t of dr. pepper

pretending i know how to do makeup well

history; i watch a lot of expedition unknown and mysteries at the museum, and sometimes i’ll watch a free documentary on youtube if it catches my attention. last weekend i explained the donner party to my boyfriend. just.. on a whim. because i’d just watched a thing on it and he said he didn’t really know what it was. i’m that person.

OH I SHOULD HAVE MENTIONED THIS BACK AROUND TRUE CRIME BUT I READ A BOOK ABOUT H.H. HOLMES AND HIS MURDER CASTLE AND THE CHICAGO WORLD’S FAIR. it was by erik larson, i believe. larsen? i could google this. devil in the white city. there’s been talks to make it a movie. it’s a good read though i will admit i skipped a lot of the fair parts because i was there for the murder.

i also read a book about the lusitania by the same author and i was like ohhh my goooood what. it got a little boring sometimes, i had to push myself to keep going, but i would read dead wake again.

csi: miami reruns are the greatest thing don’t @ me

dark purple and black aesthetics

just like... witchy aesthetics. those colors and black cats

if you haven’t noticed by any selfies i’ve posted, i do have my lip pierced and i love finding new lip jewelry. i have a new opal stud in and i love its look

leather jackets

combat boots; i have a galaxy print pair and a pair with classic marvel comics stuff printed on the inside and you can fold down the sides to show it. they’re my faves.

owls

drunk history

the first 5 seasons of supernatural and i still have a soft spot for the winchesters and castiel

i’m slowly making my way through watching the librarians

i’m also making my way slowly through watching the magicians

(american) football

nature walks

going to the zoo

going to the aquarium

like really take me to either of the above and i will lose my shit

road trips

savannah, georgia

the smokey mountains

last august i drove by myself from ohio to boone, north carolina for a friend’s wedding and that wedding was smack on a mountain top and it was the coolest thing i think i’ve ever done

roller coasters BUT NOT EXTREME ONES baby steps ok

log rides tho, i don’t know why, i always love the water rides

ren faires!

cosplay, even though i’m not exactly active in it myself (but i want to be; one of my offline friends is an actually-getting-kind-of-internet-famous mei from overwatch cosplayer)

cards against humanity

foosball

pool but i suck at it

speaking of pools i love swimming ... but i suck at it, i just like boppin’ along in a pool

cookouts

summer

there is nothing like being out in the middle of nowhere in summer when the evening starts to fall and the sky is dark, dark blue and there’s a sea of shimmering lightning bugs out over a field. it’s beautiful. it’s peaceful.

there’s nothing like sitting outside on a calm spring night and listening to the spring peepers (they’re frogs) either.

if you couldn’t tell, i live in the middle of nowhere. i have to find enjoyment in the little things.

campfires

dancing around said campfire, you cannot have a campfire without good music. this is when a lot of my classic rock education came to pass.

elephants

my favorite books are the abhorsen trilogy by garth nix, tied with the serpent’s shadow by mercedes lackey

i am trying to get into comic books by way of the youtube channel comicstorian. they break comic books down for you and read them aloud with the images, altered slightly to avoid copyright strikes (and that’s all made very clear, it’s not done sketchily), and it’s been really easy for someone like me who doesn’t just have a comics store close (and i would otherwise continue on as i have been, forgetting to ever look for them on the internet). i listened to injustice 1 and 2, and they covered the game. i’m actively following scooby apocalypse, and there was some teen titans stuff i went all the way through up until now. i don’t think it’s finished yet from what i remember.

i love museums

candles

i actually kind of collect tea sets

i also have a collection of sand art bottles AND IF I’M EVER AT A FESTIVAL OR A FAIR WHERE THERE IS A SAND ART STAND YOU CAN BET I AM GOING TO MAKE ONE

yugioh duels; i’m definitely just a novice and it’s just a fun pastime my friends got me into when they found their giant binders of cards again

i’m not actually that big on pokemon, i don’t know a lot of them but it’s still fun and i know some. but i did love pokemon go when my friends still played it (don’t really have time anymore, and it kept crashing way too badly on one of their phones anymore anytime they tried to join a raid and it just wasn’t fun as a group then)

i don’t have any but i like the ~look of crystals and would like to have some, not for my own aesthetic but i just... like having pretty things!

listening to the rain

how the air smells (at least where i live) after a long rain and everything is just cleansed

depression has stopped me from writing for a long time but, in my heart, writing has always been something that has touched me ever since i knew how to do it and could put my stories down on paper instead of having to just talk about them... so i’m going to include that here

root beer floats

hotdogs

hard dip ice cream (if you don’t know what hard dip means... as my boyfriend didn’t... it means ice cream that you have to use a scoop with, not soft serve)

soft serve’s good too tho don’t get me wrong

strawberry milkshakes

this isn’t even stuff that anyone would need to know on this site to befriend me at this point, nobody’s gonna message me like HEY I READ YOU LIKE STRAWBERRY MILKSHAKES ME FUCKING TOO

you’re cool if you do that lmao

so bad they’re good creature features from the 50s and 60s

the old godzilla movies

i like the moon more than the stars, but i like them too

flower crowns

bouncy balls

original skittles

this has gone on way too long, nobody is reading this, your mom’s a hoe, goodnight

no she’s not, i’m sorry, if you got this far then i hope your mom is a nice person

[dvbermingham]

Chapter 3: Maguro

We ran from the car toward the single-story, slate-gray building and that familiar Kanji symbol for Fishy Smells, this time in neon red, deep-set in the portico above the door. In the car I had been going over some of the more rudimentary aspects of body guarding, one of which is to know your destination, the range of potential for threatening encounters and so on. I hoped and prayed the whole way that I would somehow recognize the  location of this meeting.

Just inside the doors, from some secluded area of the building, came the muffled thump and the vibrating bass of a nightclub, causing in me a flash of youthful insecurities rushing to my face and nether-regions. Flashbacks to my long-forgotten days as an itinerant bouncer, the familiar foyer and corridors, the scarier depths and the squeals of far-off dancing or screwing emanating from those depths. Hard to imagine forgetting an entire portion of one’s life, but, well, that’s repression for you.

The hallways dipped, the stairs bending under my weight, not a flattering feeling. The entire descent was flanked on both walls by a strange aquarium, a twisting, winding tank that ran inwards, through the walls, and snaked back again, up and down like a roller coaster, spinning with nauseating perspective out of and then back into sight.  It was Escherian, to use a term I learned from Alonso a few years earlier. An Eschquarium. Escher being a master of confusing your sense of what the fuck is going on. And in keeping with that surreal style the only organisms that appeared to live in the Eschquarium were these three-foot long freshwater eels, who wriggled in a thick knot and seemed, to my eyes at least, to thoroughly enjoy the maze-like conditions in which they found themselves captive.

At the bottom of the stairs we came to a set of heavy red-stained white oak doors. Matsuzaka knocked. The door creaked open, my boss took a noticeably quick, heavy breath, and pushed his way inside.

The ceiling rose thirty feet at least above the eleven men seated around an oblong table carved from what must have been the most beautiful species of Japanese Maple in existence. Four candelabras stood aflame in an off-set fashion down the center of the table. Matsuzaka took his place at the last empty chair, besides the one at the head of the table, and I joined the ranks of the eleven other body guards flanking the perimeter.

No one spoke. Some smoked cigarettes or cigars or drank from crystal glasses holding a thimbles-worth of liquor. Some tapped their rings against the thick wooden table. Some drew lewd cartoons of their mistresses on the backs of their prepared words or cocktail napkins. Some drew ovals and scrawled the names of everyone seated in the room. If they didn’t remember the name they wrote the name of the city they represented. Some adjusted their cuff-links and avoided eye contact and uncrossed their legs carefully so as not to scuff their recently shined shoes or make a noise that suggested discomfort. They were from Detroit and Portland (both kinds) and Austin and Miami, Fresno and Phoenix and Denver and so on. If they didn’t know where someone was from they might call their bodyguard or henchman over to consult.

Not a single person in the room seemed the slightest but mesmerized by the most striking element to this inner sanctum: the two panel aquarium, floor to ceiling, at the far end of the room, carrying in an upward stream an incessant throng of sea-turtles. It was as if this were the heart of the aquarium’s circulation, the turtles were the blood cells. Where did they end up after they reached the top? Did they recycle back to the bottom? Were they stuck in an upstream for the rest of their lives? How long was that? How long do sea turtles live? I watched the non-stop reptilian flow, trying to spot a repeat.

Then, without warning, the door between the two turtle-teeming enclosures opened and out came a man completely dwarfed by his surroundings. Whatever tiny amount of calm that held the room was abruptly sucked away by his appearance. Glasses were placed on the table, elbows removed, legs uncrossed, throats cleared. The man wore a beautifully tailored grey and black pin-stripe suit with an aubergine, floral-patterned tie. Though he seemed a small fellow at first, with every step as he approached the table he seemed to grow exponentially in stature. Having earlier stood at 5’3”, he now chaired at 6’5”. But perhaps most striking feature was his baldness, which he revealed theatrically as he took off his black rabbit-fur fedora and placed it like a crown on the table, turning it slightly so the arc of the navy blue feather that sprung from its ribbon sweatband could be seen, nay, felt by all. Immaculate and radiant, his head was a perfect orb, luminous as a woman’s breast. Its perfection was further enhanced by the three auspiciously placed moles, a touch of genetic artistry, like deliberate drops of black soy reduction on the ninth plate of a nineteen-course omikase.

As he settled into the table, it became obvious that that last bit of calm earlier sucked from the room was absorbed by Boss Senju. He held the table on the tip of his fingers. Not a single bead of sweat could be seen on his magnificent skull-skin. In fact, almost nothing about Senju’s demeanor would lead you to believe he too was just a pawn in the larger cosmic game played by the Imperial Sushi Council of Tokyo and who knows what other trans-national fish organizations — perhaps his forehead, which, according to legend, was said to contain an almost unfathomable wrinkle-density, should anyone ever illicit a furrow from such a notoriously unrufflable brow.

Enough time had passed. Senju was ready to begin the meeting. He rose, though not very high, and cleared his throat. He began his statements just so:

“Gentlemen. As I look around this room, my breath escapes me, along with my speech. If only I could speak in my native tongue, I would be able to convey in just a few words the vast range of disappointment I feel when I look upon this council. I would possess the precise verbiage for explaining the futility in working with any of you even a day longer.”

Senju tapped the table twice with his pointer finger, and out of the perimeter a burly man in an oversized suit shuffled forward and placed a rocks glass of whiskey at Senju’s right hand.  

He took a sip.

“Instead I have English. The language of confusion, vulgarity, and metaphor. The language of the nation that brought Japan to its knees. I have English because I have been cast out of my country of birth to do business in this pitiful land, with you pitiful excuses for chefs.

He took a second sip, hesitated, then finished the glass, then let out a purely Goldblumian groan.

“I would like to tell you all a story. When I was a young man, I was walking through the local gardens, taking my time, taking each step as deliberately as the next. There was an old woman up ahead, sitting on a bench, her hands folded on her lap. She did not see me approach, did not flinch as I sat down beside her. She simply gazed at the scene before her, a scene that demanded a balance of focus and aloofness. I looked in the same direction as she.  A sea of white pebbles, a few granite stones jutting out, an archipelago. An old maple cast a shadow over the entire scene, and through the leaves of the maple, whose branches hung low enough for the leaves to barely drag against the stones when the wind passed through, one could make out a stone sculpture hidden in the ivy of another section of garden. I strained my eyes to better see the form of the sculpture but I simply could not. The leaves, the shadows, the ivy, the way the light at that particular moment of the day seemed to avoid it, all kept the sculpture in a state of aloofness and focus. Back and forth it toyed with me, like a word on the tip of my tongue, or a faint memory tied to a smell from my childhood. I did not want to break the peaceful nature of the moment but after some time I could no longer bear it. So I asked the old woman sitting next to me if she knew what we were looking at, what the sculpture in the distance represented.

“The old woman did not respond, nor did she acknowledge my words or still yet even my presence. Figures, I thought to myself. A woman of such years does not come to such a place to make small talk with young fools. Somehow I knew that she heard me, which meant her silence therefore was a response in itself. So I took that silence to heart, and I remained there with her for a while longer.

“It became closer to dusk, the sun just fading behind the hills to the west. Direct light no longer shone through the garden, only the ephemeral light of the atmosphere, the totality of reflections, shades of blue. And it was in this light that the sculpture seemed to step out from behind its ivy, out of the shadows, and appeared before us both.”

There was silence for some time. I focused my attention on the bubbling, teeming turtle stream, which I not found oddly calming.

After a long pause, one of the bosses, the gentleman from Denver, afraid of silence, dared to speak. “What was the sculpture?”

Boss Senju ignored the comment, preferring instead to nurture the silence of the room, the silence he had created with his story. A gardener’s silence.

Then, a moment later, he tapped his finger three times and the same burly man in an oversized suit came over, handkerchief in hand, and gave his baldness a quick buff.

“The state of our council can only be fully seen when the light is just so. This week, the light shined at that perfect angle. As Boss Takuto perished at the hands of assassins, we got a glimpse of the state of this council. Weakness abounds. Disgraceful partnerships, poor quality rice, clientele suckupery! These are not the tenets of a successful sushi empire!” With that exclamation he slammed his fist on the table. A shiver ran through the perimeter of goons of which I found myself a member.  

“Now, we do not know the circumstances surrounding this assassination, and I will be honest, when we find out, it is in the interest of safety to all of you to keep it hidden. But I will say this: we have a virus in our midst. It causes internal bleeding. You have seen the recent film Outbreak, perhaps? Well, similar thing. A viral hemorrhagic fever, that’s what we have. Great film, if you haven’t seen it. Anyway, the bleeding must be stanched. The virus must be defeated. That virus, my friends, is the Sushi Underground.”

The bosses of the guild each began exhibiting their own nervous tic at the mention of said underground.

“Those fiends who seek to bastardize our humble, elegant contribution to this gaijin wasteland. Too long we have stood by and watched as they set the trends that are anathema to our cause. Too long have we washed our hands, scrubbed our cutting boards, and resigned ourselves to being blinded by the alluring glint of the mackerel’s scales. Too long have we busied ourselves with the whetstone’s promise of the sharpest blade. Let me say this, my fellow chefs. Our blades are sharp enough. Our fish is fresh enough. The walls of our own restaurants can no longer be the extent of our purview, because out there, out beyond our restaurant walls, the Sushi Underground is working to undercut decades of work on behalf of the Imperial Council. Today I call upon you, the city bosses, to get your city’s chefs in line. Today marks the day that we begin full eradication of the Sushi Underground.”

“Now, in order to ensure total commitment on the part of your constituents, I have a little incentive for you.” Here Senju rapped on the table four times.

The doors between the turtle aquariums opened once more, revealing a phalanx of henchmen, each carrying what looked to be a large body part. They marched towards us split into two groups of six, and surrounded the table, each henchman behind a boss. All at once, the henchmen dropped the gifts, which fell to the table with a heavy thud.

“These are prize winning maguro. You will not find a finer specimen in your lives.”

The bosses peeled back the newspapers wrapping the fish in an attempt to glimpse that sweet, sweet glistening…

“Stop it! You can trust that I know my fish. Take these to your restaurant. You can disperse them as you wish. But I suggest you be careful how you dole it out. The city that shows the most fortitude in fending off the Underground will find themselves in high regard with the I.S.C. And remember, if not for the ISC, none of you would be alive today. 

It is worth noting at this point there was not a single molecule of fishiness in the air.

[octopuslovers]

pearl, sails, lighthouse, shells, mermaid, turquoise, waves, breakers, seafoam, rain, sunlight, marine, sea glass, storm, boardwalk, coral, nymph, seawater, siren, tempest, tropic, aquamarine, brine, tidal, azure, fog, coastline, shallows, voyage, shipwreck, cerulean, shoreline, tsunami, riptide, hurricane

why do you do this to me

pearl: if you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go and why?

france bc i heard they have a lot of good food

sails: describe your perfect partner.

uhm............. idk?? gay, sweet, and there when i need them ig?? lots of smooches received from them too

lighthouse: how much makeup do you wear?

depends

shells: would you prefer to be a vampire or a werewolf?

vampire......... im not a furry

mermaid: most embarrassing moment?

I’VE SAID THIS ONCE AND IM NOT GONNA SAY IT AGAIN

turquoise: weirdest dream you’ve ever had?

ive had a lot but the most recent one is here

waves: favourite season and why?

WINTER BECAUSE IT GIVES ME A REASON FOR CONSTANTLY WEARING MY XL HOODIE

breakers: would you ever consider getting married?

fuck yeah

seafoam: describe your ideal summer vacation.

eating and sleeping and talking 2 friends 

rain: if it were possible, what exotic animal would you keep as a pet?

a fucking cheetah bitch. or a sea nettle.......

sunlight: least favourite song?

baby by justin bieber

marine: would you ever consider plastic surgery?

no

sea glass: what do you consider to be your best physical feature?

either my legs or my Boobs 

storm: do you like piercings and tattoos? why or why not?

i like tattoos just not piercings because having them not on ur ear lobe seems painful for me

boardwalk: who is your favourite fictional couple?

i would say lapidot but im not sure if it counts as fictional if i lived through it

coral: if you had to describe your personality as a food, what would you be and why?

candy corn. tastes good at first but once you get too much it nasty

nymph: old-fashioned or modern decor?

why not Both

seawater: scariest movie you’ve ever watched?

im a pussy ass bitch i have watched 0 scary movies

siren: in a fantasy setting, would you be a warrior, rogue or mage?

mage

tempest: your favourite pokemon?

JELLICENT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AND FRILLISH. GOOD BOYS

tropic: what is your least favourite thing about your appearance?

Everything

aquamarine: describe your dream date.

going 2 the park and swinging on the swings.. maybe a lil smoochin under a tree...... hhhh ALSO AQUARIUMS WITH LOTS OF JELLIES

brine: gold or silver?

gold

tidal: what is a colour that best describes your personality?

blue

azure: what is something that you do that makes you happy?

talk 2 my blessed friends......

fog: describe where you think you’ll be in five years.

dead in the middle of miami 

coastline: what is your favourite flower?

rose probably?? 

shallows: what is your typical starbucks order?

caramel frappe or pumpkin spice frappe.......

voyage: what are your favourite names?

um ??? idk.

shipwreck: do you have an OC? If so, describe them.

i have an oc named jellyfish which is made out of all the emotions i’d like to never express

cerulean: do you believe in true love?

hella

shoreline: if you could become fluent in another language, which would you pick and why?

french because i love the way it sounds

tsunami: describe a dream outfit of yours.

THIS ONE LAPIS HOODIE IM TRYING TO FUCKING GET + A SCHOOL SKIRT AND THIGH HIGHS

riptide: are you introverted or extroverted? are you happy with this?

introverted under certain circumstances. no

hurricane: describe a strange habit of yours.

i have a habit or making everything perfect.. like if i take a bit of a sandwich i try to make it look straight instead of a huge ass curve

[dsikkema]

Jim: Amazon River Dolphin

A curmudgeonly janitor for the Miami Aquarium finds something to fight for when the last Amazon River Dolphin moves into the aquarium. Strong language throughout. Approximately 5,900 words.

A dolphin is a fat fucking fish. Jim was not my friend. He was not a person. He was a fat fucking fish. I did not love him. I promise you that.

My name is Jeff Higgins. I’m a janitor for the Miami Aquarium, the most popular aquarium on the East Coast. But popular doesn’t mean well-funded. Why would anyone go to an aquarium when smartphones offer everything humanity knows right in the palms of everyone’s fat ass hands? Six months ago, entry ticket sales dipped hard, and the aquarium’s chief officers flipped shit. They fired our old P.R. agent and brought in a new one: Linda. She made the auxiliary staff take these evening classes on marine biology. “The public eye watches all,” Linda said. I told her that I didn’t need her stupid classes. “We’ll discuss that later,” she said. Spoiler alert: we never discussed it.

I have a bachelor’s degree in Marine Science from the University of Tampa. I’m not stupid. And yes, a dolphin is a fat fucking fish. Seals are dog fish, different from dogfish. Manatees are blob fish, different from blobfish. Scientists, whose lab coats I have to clean by the way, decided to classify everything that doesn’t have gills as a mammal. Why not classify everything that spends most of its time in the water as a fish? Because ‘most’ isn’t scientifically accurate. Well, fuck you. People know what ‘most’ means unless they’re stupid.

Whatever Linda did, it worked. Entry sales spiked.

Then this dolphin came to the aquarium.

I was scrubbing down the Green Sea Anemone tank when I got buzzed on my walkie. “Clean up in the mammals dome. Someone’s kid puked.” I groaned, put my Windex away, and grabbed my cleaning supplies cart, lugging it behind me like a ball and chain. I started pushing people out of the way as I left the invertebrate tunnels and wound my way through the bird exhibits to the mammals dome. I’d heard that the aquarium was keeping a dolphin there. “The last Amazon river dolphin,” our mammals biologist had said. “Just flown in from Brazil.”

I pushed open the doors at the other end of the sloping birds pathway and shoved into the mammals dome. The dome is just that: a huge dome filled with water that has a pathway crossing through the middle so that people can gawk at their smartphones while marine animals swim past. The path expands at the middle of the dome so people can update their Facebook statuses. OMG, the Miami aquarium dome is literally the COOLEST thing I’ve ever seen!!!!

I walked into the dome. Normally, there are manatees and seals dodging through the kelp, playing in the sand at the bottom, but today the dome looked unoccupied. All these people had crowded at the other end of the path. This dolphin had to be doing loop-de-loops or some shit. Screaming parents. Shrieking kids. Pretentious scientists. Pompous hipsters. Fat asses. Wise asses. Jack asses. People. Most of them taking pictures on their phones. I got over to where the kid had puked, a spot in the middle platform, and looked out. The dolphin was drifting there, pink skinned with sunlight dancing across his back, frowning, too small for the big ass dome, his snout pointing out at the crowd like they were guilty of something.

One of the aquarium’s teenage docents, hired to tell people the life-spans of manatees and the diets of harbor seals, stood in front of the crowd.  His name was Bobby. Some kid banged on the glass with his fists. “Hey, little buddy!” Bobby greeted. I chuckled at Bobby’s mockingly pleasant tone. “Could ya stand behind the dots please? Loud noise makes him cranky.” The kid banged on the glass again. I laughed again, put out a couple wet floor signs, and slapped my mop onto the puke.

“Are you sure?” A pompous hipster shouted at Bobby. “Are you sure it’s the last one?”

“Yep,” Bobby replied. “Jim is the last Amazon River Dolphin.”

That got me laughing. Jim. A dolphin named Jim. They gotta name these animals to keep track of them. I guess it also helps the guests see ‘themselves in the animal.’ But he’s not a person. He’s a fat fucking fish.

“Isn’t this salt water?” the hipster asked.

“We changed some piping, and presto! Fresh water!” Bobby responds. “Jim’ll be happy as long as he’s here.”

“Dolphins are social creatures.” The hipster’s voice was nasally and sharp. “How can he be happy?”

“We are his family! We have toys for him to play with and divers who’ll hop in sometimes and play with him for a while. Our goal is to keep him communicating with our scientists.”

Communicating!

“Well, he’s not gonna live that long anyway,” the hipster continued.

“Sorry, bud, but animals in captivity actually live longer. Jim is an aging male, but he’ll be around for a long time.” Bobby flashed a fat grin. He hopped off of his little block. “Follow me everyone! It’s time to feed him!” The crowd followed Bobby’s fact-spouting ass out of the room.

I finished cleaning up the puke and looked up at the dome. I don’t like a lot of things. I like my wife, who doesn’t want kids. I like my dog. I like beer. And I like the dome. The sunlight is nice. I like the space it gives the animals. Animal, in this case. They’d moved the dog fish and blob fish to other tanks. Jim was alone.

Jim swam over to me and drifted for a second. His long snout pointed at me. Then he looked up at the sun, and it shined down in his eyes. “Don’t get cocky, Jim,” I said. “You’re a fat fucking fish.” I liked to think that I was talking to him. Who knows? Maybe he heard me.

Jim drifted for a couple seconds. Then he paddled his tail and swam up to the ball that Bobby had thrown into the dome. I sighed and started lugging my cleaning cart back to Green Sea Anemones.

After the aquarium closed, I was making my window cleaning rounds, lugging my cart behind me and holding a bottle of Windex. Squirt, squirt, squirt, rub. Sigh. Squirt, Squirt, Squirt, rub. Sigh. Squirt, squirt, squirt, rub. Sigh.

I was cleaning the windows in the hall leading into Jim’s dome when I heard two voices. One was Linda’s, the P.R. agent. I cringed. The other was Marie’s, our top biologist. They were standing together on the dome’s central platform.

“200 Percent! 200 percent, Marie!” Linda said. “This dolphin is hot. I told you this dolphin is hot!”

“Yeah,” Marie replied. The light in the dome came from overhead electric lights, not the sun. It had gone down a while ago. Jim danced through the kelp, weaving through the green strands in the dim orange glow of the electric lamps. “I think that we should consider, maybe, limiting guest access,” Marie continued. Linda scoffed. “All these people…I don’t think it’s good for him, you know? He does have it. I mean, that is why he’s here, right? The Brazil aquarium couldn’t care for him anymore.”

“Keep giving him shots.”

“Well, that’ll slow it down, maybe. If we want to think about saving him, we should—“

“AHEM!”

I cleared my throat. They looked at me. I gestured at the dome wall with my Windex. “Next room, Jeff,” Linda said. I dragged my cart through the dome, the wheels screaming in the awkward silence. Linda and Marie started whispering. I rolled my eyes. Why should I give a shit about their conversation?

“WE ARE NOT TAKING HIM OFF DISPLAY!” Linda shrieked. “END OF DISCUSSION!”

That made my ears ring.

Later that night, I was mopping the space around the top of Jim’s dome where people watch our staff “communicate” with him, no roof separating it from the stars glaring down from the sky. I looked out at the black, unfathomable ocean as I mopped the rim of Jim’s dome. The aquarium was built right next to the ocean so it could keep pumping salt water through the building. My head wandered off.

Then that fat fucking fish just about pulled my mop into the water.

He’d jumped halfway out of his tank and grabbed my mop with his teeth. “HEY!” I yanked the mop back. I stood there for a second. His snout jabbed at me like an accusatory finger. He opened his mouth and the characteristic dolphin creeeeeaaaak came boiling out.

I sighed and flipped the mop strands in his face. “You wanna do it?

Jim dove away.

I kept mopping. Jim resurfaced and poked his snout out of the water.

Creeeeeaaaaaaak.

“What?”

Creeeeeeaaaaak.

He was swimming near a bucket of fish in a cove where the biologists feed and play with him.

I groaned and shook my head.

Creeeeaaaak.

I stared at the bucket for a long time. Fuck it, I thought. I walked to the cove, grabbed a fish, and tossed it to him. He caught and swallowed it. He kept swimming around the bucket.

Creeeeeaaaaaak.

I looked down at the bucket. Fuck it. I grabbed the bucket and threw the whole fucking pail of dead fish into the water. Jim started snapping them up, one at a time.

I sighed and walked back to where I was mopping bird shit off of the path. Then I turned and glanced back at Jim, snapping up fish left and right. I felt something warm prick at the corners of my mouth. I shook my head and looked down at the bird shit. “You know, it’s convention to ask about the wife and kids.”

Creeaak.

“She’s good. No kids. They either turn into little shits who think they know everything or little smart asses who do know everything and want to rub it in your face.”

Creeeeaaaak.

“Yeah, once I was the little smart ass who knew everything.” I stopped mopping. Maybe Jim was listening. You never know. “I wanted to be a big biologist like Marie or some shit.” I shook my head. “But money for school beyond a B.S. in Marine Science didn’t exist. At least not for me. Neither did any jobs. So here I am.”

Creeeeaaaak.

I felt warmth pricking at the sides of my mouth and let myself smile, the slight bubble of laughter building in the back of my throat. “You’re like my dog. Can’t ever know what you’re—”

Creeeaaaaaak.

I looked up. The fish were gone. Jim was swimming near his pile of toys. I sighed, walked over, and kicked the ball into the dome. “Don’t interrupt me,” I said, returning to the bird shit by my mop.

Then the fat fucking fish punted the ball at my head. I didn’t mind though. That meant he saw people like I do. They feed you, but sometimes you gotta smack them upside the head. I might have even looked back and smiled. I don’t really remember.

This went on. Every week I had to wipe the bird shit off of the paths around Jim’s tank, and when I did, I’d always throw the bucket of fish that Marie had left out into Jim’s tank. He’d snatch them up like they were still alive and might get away. I talked sometimes, letting myself think that he was listening. I talk to my dog like that sometimes too. Sue me. At least she doesn’t talk back.

One night after the aquarium had hosted some kid’s birthday, I was mopping up around Jim’s dome.

Creeeeaaaaaakkk.

I looked up at the stars, down at the ocean lapping against the nearby shore. I walked to the pail of fish and scattered them into Jim’s dome. He started snatching them up again. The nearby beach was deserted except for a teen couple, laughing and falling over each other like they might last forever. I looked out at the ocean, leaning on my mop. Then I groaned and kept mopping up the bird shit.

Creeeaaaaaakkkk.

“What?”

Creeeaaaaaaakkk.

I shook my head and kept mopping, my eyes on the path. “Birthday parties are idiotic. Congratulations, you survived another year!” I put elbow grease into my mopping. “Big fucking deal.”

Creeeaaaaaakkk.

I walked over and kicked Jim’s ball into the pool. He hadn’t punted it at my head since the first night. I leaned on my mop and sighed.  “The birthday girl’s family brought their dog in for her birthday. Linda flipped shit, but Marie approved it. A big golden, fluffy, fat, happy.” I kept mopping. “I’ve had lots of dogs, let me tell you. Rover, Bailey, and Teddy. Then there was Goldy. She died when I was ten. It wasn’t pretty. She ran out of the cul-de-sac one day. We looked for hours. When we found her, she was on her last leg. She’d basically been stoned to death by the asshole kids around the block. They hated me. Well, everyone did, thought I was a teacher’s pet because I did my fucking homework. Anyway, the vet said there was nothing he could do, so three days later, we buried Goldy, and my parent’s didn’t cry, not one fucking tear, nothing, even though I was bawling my fucking eyes out, cradling the rock engraved with her name like it might–”

Creeeaaaaaakk.

I looked at Jim. He was bobbing in the water, his dark eyes looking up at me and his snout pointing at my feet. I stopped and leaned on my mop, realizing that I’d finished cleaning the path.

“That’s when I learned that people are shit heads.” I shook my head. “Worst day of my life. Even trumps the day my little brother died.”

Creeeaaaaak.

I shrugged. “We live. We die. Some gotta go sooner. Still, it’s kind of fucked up for an eight-year-old to die of fucking Leukemia.”

Creeaaaak.

Jim and I looked at each other’s eyes. He quietly jumped up and bit my mop. For a moment, I let him gnaw on it, feeling the edges of my mouth start to twitch as something warm and painful suddenly lurched its way to life inside of my body.

I yanked the mop away. Jim dove into the dome. I thrust my mop into my bucket of suds and snarled, “What the hell do you know? You’re a fat fucking fish.”

The next four weeks went about the same. I mopped the space around Jim’s dome, fed him, and kicked him his ball. Did Marie notice the missing pails of fish? Probably, but I doubt she cared. She was too busy trying to convince Linda to take Jim away from the public.

So yeah, I talked to a dolphin and fed him a little more than he was supposed to get. No big deal.

If anything, I should have hated Jim. That fat fucking fish brought SO MANY PEOPLE to the aquarium! That meant more messes. All of them fat asses, smart asses, and wise asses, walking around looking at their phones when there are smart ass kids like Bobby standing around and BEGGING someone to talk to them.

Eight weeks after my first night with Jim, I’m making my rounds with the Windex and rag again, lugging my cart behind me as usual. I was wiping the tanks in the hall leading to Jim’s dome, when I heard two voices again. Guess who?

“It’s all over his liver at this point.” Marie.

“So what? We knew that would happen.” Linda.

“I think we might have slowed it down if we’d given him time in extensive care.”

“Extensive care puts him out of the public eye.”

“I think there might be more important things than the public, Linda. We are talking about his life.”

“More important than the public? Marie, this dolphin is radioactive! Do you have any idea how much money this dolphin has pulled in? I sure don’t because we’re still counting!”

Linda stared at her cell phone. Marie was staring at the Amazon River Dolphin fact board. Extinct in the wild, it read. Jim lazily swam around the dome. “Yeah,” Marie said. “O.K. I know we hired you to increase aquarium income, but the aquarium is here to educate people about these animals, you know? For as long as possible, right?”

“The public doesn’t want to be educated, Marie! They want to be entertained!”

Marie looked up from the board. “Linda.” Linda met her eyes. “Please?” They stared at each for a moment. Linda eyed Marie like a child that she might humor with a pre-dinner candy bar.

Linda scoffed. She took another look at Marie. “Alright, fine. We’ll release a statement that Jim’s going into extensive care soon. The people will trample each other to see him before he goes.” Linda walked away, towards the sharks’ dome. “But I want him back out in a week. We need to capitalize on this!” Marie glanced at the board describing Amazon River Dolphins one more time. Then she followed after Linda.

That’s when I stopped and looked at my surroundings. Fuck. I was eavesdropping. I was eavesdropping because of a fat fucking fish.

Later that night, I was mopping the space around Jim’s dome.

“Extensive care. Lucky you. I’d like to live in extensive care. Anything you need, they got.”

Creeeaaak.

“I’m getting to the fish.” I stopped mopping, glared at the stars, shook my head, and continued. “Like I was saying, they got all these monitors in extensive care. They’ll keep track of your blood pressure and your heartbeat and your temperature, all just by tracking vibrations in the water. It’s pretty badass. You’ll still have your big tank and everything. Computers can do some amazing things.”

Creeeaaak.

“Food’s the only thing on your mind. Just like my dog.” I finished mopping up a spot of bird shit and walked over to the pail of fish. “You’re pretty quiet tonight.” I tossed the fish into the water.

Fuck. I hadn’t been looking at the water.

Jim was drifting out in the middle of the dome like a lifeless log. The water lapped lamely at his sides as he floated, motionless, almost as if he were dead. My heart screamed in an electric jolt of fear. I replayed the sounds he had emitted that night in my head and realized that I hadn’t heard him splashing around. He had looked fine just two days ago. This was a fat fucking turn of events. Jim didn’t snatch up the fish like they were still alive. I watched the herring slowly float out to him. He ignored them, still unmoving for a long time. Slowly, he lifted his tail and dove downward.

I sighed, jammed my mop into my bucket of suds, and left. He’s a fish. Why should I care?

The next day…Oh, THE NEXT FUCKING DAY! Linda’s press release had circulated the planet overnight. All the people from before and more. Goth teens. Self-centered college students. Old folks on walkers. Parents with strollers. Whiny kids. Screaming kids. Shitty kids. Helicopter parents. Idiot parents. Shitty parents. Fat asses, wise asses, and jack asses assembled. All of them heading to Jim. Imagine that the Beatles had come back to life and were in that dome, playing “Blackbird” the whole time.

I was cleaning up someone’s Gatorade in Jim’s dome. I had a couple wet floor signs up. Most people were staring at their phones. Those who weren’t were taking pictures, crowding around the “Amazon River Dolphin” board, or trying to listen to Bobby’s mockingly pleasant spiel. I looked at Jim. He drifted away from Bobby, to me. His snout pointed at the crowd like they had done something guilty. He reached me and my wet floor signs. People were snapping their cameras at him and me. I put my head down and groaned.

A kid waddled over the “no-step” dots. He had curly blonde hair. His grin was wide and dopey with wide gaps in between his teeth and his laugh was bubbly and nauseating and his sneakers were tiny and stumbling and laced by parents who had vanished into the crowd somewhere. He leaned his pudgy hands on the glass and stood there. I looked at him and groaned, continuing to mop. My peripheral vision caught Jim looking spectral in the sunlit water. “Fishy!” the kid screamed as he banged his hands on the glass.

The glass quivered, and I heard Jim creak in agony.

“Hey,” I said. The kid looked up at me. His dopey grin met my scowl. I gazed into green eyes thick with the soupy light of idiotic, ignorant innocence and wordless, meaningless, directionless happiness. My scowl tightened like a boxer’s bicep in preparation for the knockout punch. “Don’t touch the glass,” I growled. “Stay behind the dots.”

The kid’s feet stomped like he had to piss but didn’t have the brains to express himself in words. He kept smiling, big, fat gaps in between his teeth that gleamed white by the attention of parents who thought he was an angel. A pretty little angel who could do no wrong. No fucking wrong. Even though he was a god damn person. The kid laughed. “Hee hee hee!”

He slammed on the glass with open palms and I saw the dome quiver like a whimpering animal. I heard Jim as he drifted close to the back wall of the dome.

Creeeeeeaaaakkkk…

I saw Goldy’s broken, bloody body lying stark against the black pavement of my cul-de-sac.

“Hey!” I shouted at the grinning little dunce, dancing like he had to piss but didn’t give a fuck about who would have to clean it up. “Don’t touch the glass!”

He laughed again, and I felt the tears wept over the stone engraved with Goldy’s name rage upward from deep within my stomach. The kid raised his hands to bang on the glass again, and I channeled the rising tears into something fiery and enraged and heaving that latched onto my hand, my hand that reached out and grabbed the kid’s arm as if he were brandishing a stone that might shatter the dome.

“HEY!” I grabbed the kid’s wrist. The crowd gasped. The kid’s dopey grin vanished, and the venomous words crept onto my tongue. “Don’t…touch…the glass. You little fucker.”

I stared at the kid, and the kid stared back at me like he didn’t know what he had done.

“Jeff!” I heard Bobby voice sail over the people. He stepped between me and the kid. The kid started crying. “That’s not how we treat children here.” A mom and dad crouched down by the kid, looking up at me like I had punched the little shit in the face. Bobby glared at me.

I straightened my back, blinked several times, and saw the child in front of me.

I snarled and left. Jim was drifting at the back of the dome.

Creeeaaaaakkkk…

Later Linda called me into her upstairs office. I walked into her room with windows that leered out at the other second floor office spaces. Two windows behind her let in the setting sun. She was typing on her smartphone. “Hold on,” she said. I groaned. She glanced up at me. “Kill the tone, Jeff.” I didn’t respond.

She lifted her head to me. “I heard about your stunt today. I could fire you right now.” I didn’t say anything. Her eyes tried to bore into me. I looked into them. “I want to,” she said.

Get the fuck out, I thought.

Linda leaned back. “But Marie told me that you’ve never attacked a child before. Thank her later because she’s saving your job. You know behind the scenes pretty well. From now on, you’ll be working there. Stay off the floor.”

Thank the Lord.

“Anything to say, Jeff?” I shook my head. “Good.” She returned to her smartphone. I left.

I started mopping up behind the scenes. Scientists are just as messy as everyone else. Jim spent another day in the dome. Then he went into extensive care. I saw him a lot then, but he was never alone, not even when the aquarium closed. Biologists were constantly measuring his heartbeat, blood pressure, and body temperature on this huge monitor. They took blood and dropped it onto these little tablets which read out cell concentrations. There weren’t any buckets of fish for me to throw into his tank, but I don’t think he was hungry. I don’t even want to know what he was getting pumped with. Animal chemo was not easier than human chemo.

After a week in extensive care, Jim went back out in public again. Marie didn’t leave any fish out anymore. Jim hardly ever ate anymore.

Two weeks after he was put back in public, I was mopping the space around his dome. He was swimming limply around the space where a pail of herring might have been. “You’re having a good night. Haven’t seen that for weeks.”

Creeeeeaaak.

He swam away from the pail-less platform and circled the dome’s rim. I kept mopping. He swam over to his pile of toys. I mopped my way over and kicked a ball into his dome. I stopped, leaning on my mop, as I watched him poke and push the ball around with his snout.

“I heard the biologists talking about euthanasia earlier, but I don’t see the problem.” Jim punted the ball out of the dome. It lazily rolled past my feet. I nodded. “I see.”

Jim swam over to my edge of the dome. He pointed his guilty-labeling snout away from me. Then he leapt up and grabbed the bottom of my mop. I felt a warm tingle at either side of my mouth and permitted myself to smile.

“Jim, you’re a fat fucking fish.” I gently pulled my mop away and thrust it back in my tub of suds and started to walk away.

Creeeeeeeaaaak.

I turned around, and my eyes found Jim’s. His gazed back at mine. For a moment, I thought I could I almost see words in them. I wondered if river dolphins had tear ducts. What if Jim were crying right now and I had no way of knowing because his tears couldn’t fall? What if he had been crying all along and I just hadn’t been capable of hearing him because all I ever heard was the sound of a slowly opening door? Against my will, my thoughts took a selfish turn and looked inward. Was there any way I could ever know that Jim gave more than two shits about me?

I wanted to smile, laugh, joke, something. I wanted to look away, turn, leave, pretend that his eyes meant nothing. He’s a fat fucking fish, I thought. He’s a fat fucking fish. But as I stared back into his bloody, drooping eyes, I just saw the words that I thought were there, that I wanted to think were there. I felt something liquid and hot pushing its way to the front of my face. And I pushed it away.

I turned and walked the hardest steps that I’d ever had to take, mumbling as I went, “Thank God you’re not a fat fucking human.”

That night was my last with Jim. Three days later they took him into extensive care again. Four days later he died. Cancer is a bitch, human or dolphin.

Two days after Jim died, I was cleaning the chrome hallway leading into his extensive care unit, a larger tank in the next room. Iron cabinets and countertops flanked me and boxed me in like a prison.  I was dragging my cart behind me, and it felt like someone had filled it with solid steel. My jaw was tight and my eyes locked on my Windex bottle. I heard a couple voices from around the corner wrench my ears.

The first voice was Linda’s. “The dolphin’s death announcement goes out tomorrow.”

I froze. I felt my jaw and my muscles all lock together. I stood there, frozen, focusing all of my strength on this raging tension in my stomach.

Marie replied, “Yeah.” Jesus. Really Marie? Is that really all you can say when…

I felt acrid, unbreathable air plowing down into my lungs with each inhale, feeling my stomach and body struggling to maintain control over this rage thundering up my spine and into my brain.

“Marie,” Linda said. “Go home. You need sleep.” I shook my head. I clenched my bottle of Windex. I felt like hurling it at the stupid, imprisoning chrome cabinets that surrounded me. I saw Goldy again, lying stark, bloody, and mutilated against the black sidewalk. Her ears had been beaten inward. Her jawbone was shattered and spiked. Her fur that had once been as golden as Jim’s back the first day I saw him was matted and tainted by blood still drying in the unrelenting heat of the sun.

And Marie said, “Yeah.” That’s all she fucking said. That’s it.

“God damn it…” I muttered under my breath. “Jesus fucking Christ, Marie…God damn it…”

Linda sighed, and it sounded like my mother’s sigh as she stood over my ten-year-old body that was cradling the stone inscribed ‘Goldy: The Bestest Dog There Ever Was.’ I felt the tension in my stomach surge. The words were in my mouth, as putrid, vile, and unnecessary as vomit. But they were there. My mind strained to stop their regurgitation. I wanted to swallow them, forget them, un-see the words that floated in front of my eyes. I knew that to speak them would be pointless. It wouldn’t make a difference. I gritted my teeth. My hand clenching the Windex trembled. I shook my head, feeling tears raging towards my eyes like an undammed river.

“He pulled in more people than we could have ever estimated,” Linda continued. “He was our biggest attraction ever.”

“FUCK!”

The word burst from my stomach with all the tears and memory and tension behind it. I stepped around the corner. Marie stared at the empty water in Jim’s empty extensive care tank, her back to me. Fucking Linda turned around and glared at me with wide, astonished eyes.

“Is that all you can fucking say, Linda?” I said. “Is that all you can FUCKING say?”  I looked into her eyes and saw them quivering like the dome being pounded on by that little asshole kid from before. I hurled my Windex bottle at the floor between us. Linda flinched back. The bottle burst, unleashing a vast puddle of soapy blue fluid. “That he was the biggest attraction the aquarium has ever had?”

“Jeff, what the hell are you doing?” Linda replied.

“Because I’m here to tell your fat fucking face, Linda, that the biggest damn attraction at this bullshit you call an aquarium is the smartphone, no matter what you and your fucking numbers say.”

Linda stepped forward as something inside her dove away and her eyes trembled. She waved her hand like she might conjure a protective wall of statistics. “Step off, Jeff. Step the hell off. I will fire you so fast–“

“MARIE!” I suddenly screamed. She didn’t turn. She kept staring into Jim’s tank. “Stand the fuck up for something! Anything!”

“Don’t pull her into this, Jeff!” Linda replied. “Explain yourself, your language, your…What are you doing, Jeff?”

“What am I doing?” I said. “What the fuck am I doing? What are you doing? Do you ever think, Linda? Jim was the last Amazon River Dolphin, and what did you do every time you were around him? Stared at your fucking phone! Why the fuck did you waste so much God damn time on your phone?”

“Shut up, Jim!” She replied, trembling. “Shut the hell up!”

“HE WAS SPECIAL!”

“Get out,” Linda said. She pointed a finger back the way I’d come. “Get your things, and get the fuck out.” I stared at her for a long time. Neither of us moved. The water filter for the tank groaned in the background. I squinted and tilted my head. Linda remained tight and frozen.

Why did she wait until then to fire me?

I stood there. Linda’s eyes tried to bore into me. I looked back and saw them quivering and terrified. I glanced at her finger raised firmly towards the hall from which I’d emerged, as if she were ordering a monster back into its dark hole.

That’s when I understood.

“Oh,” I said. “So that’s why.”

“Get out,” Linda said. She twitched. Marie’s head sunk further into her shoulders. I nodded at Marie’s back.

“Marie,” I called. “It’s all good. I understand. I know now why you’re a fucking coward.”

“Jeff,” Linda said. Venom lurked in her eyes with all the toxic poise of a snake backed into a corner. “Get…out.”

I actually laughed. I looked from Linda to Marie and back to Linda. “Neither of you gave more than two shits about Jim, did you? You couldn’t afford it.”

“Get out.” The clouds opened up outside and bathed the extensive care tank in moonlight that reflected into the room and purified it, washing it clean of befuddling shadows that stood between me and how I finally understood Linda.

“Because he was doomed from the minute he got here,” I said, leaning forward and spitting the words on the ground in front of Linda. Her head fell marginally, as if to stare at the wet, sticky words on the floor, a mess that not even the Windex pool could wash away.

Terror rose up from beyond her eyes and lashed at me like a whip.

“GET THE FUCK OUT, JEFF!”

I leaned back, lifted my eyebrows, smiled, bounced on my heels once or twice, turned, and left that room, with those sticky words staring Linda in her fat fucking face from that floor awash in blazing moonlight.

I didn’t stay out. A week after I got fired, I came back as a paying customer. I’d heard they’d set up a tribute to Jim down in the dome after they put the seals and manatees back in. The moment I got in the aquarium, I went right to the dome. Linda had set up a big black monitor that said, “Amazon River Dolphin” at the top. Just seeing it made me mad. But hell, that’s all Jim ever was to them. A biochemical sack with a lifespan, diet, and habitat only in the aquarium to bring in more visitors.

Bobby was standing there on his block. Now his questions were about dog fish and blob fish again. He glared at me as I walked in. I looked around. Wise asses, fat asses, and smart asses. All staring at their phones.

I looked back to the screen that said “Amazon River Dolphin.” Screens like it had helped Jim live a lot longer than he would have without them. They let the biologists know what was wrong with him. It all was useful. I know that.

“What happened to the dolphin?” A nasally hipster asked Bobby.

“Sadly, the last Amazon River Dolphin has passed on.”

“HEY!” I shouted at Bobby. Everyone in the room looked at me, and I said, “His name was Jim.”