the fish [story] part 4

carnival, emo, winter, spooky, musical, art, dynamic

I wonder if my blue eyes can be seen, spying from underneath my father’s hood, underneath the all-consuming snow. All I can see through the whiteness are bulging brown eyes. Those orbs are no longer pleading. They evoke neither pity nor idolization. In the time it took to win the creature, it is out of sight, lost to the snow. I stand up and heavy powder falls from my father’s coat. I had forgotten I was sitting down. Turning to go back inside, I see the door, closed and bare, to my father’s house. Suddenly, a force of dormant panic awakens and surges inside me, like the thousands of pins and needles electrifying my legs. I rush to the cluster of trash, pushing away the burning snow with bare hands. Can it be saved, the wretched creature? Breath escapes my purpled lips as fog obscures my vision, already impaired in the deep blue winter twilight. Try as I might to fight through the gray matter of snow and paper pilgrims, trying to reach an end to this mess of frozen waste; trying with every drop of heated blood pushing through my veins – the carnival fish is gone. Snow drifts and whispers across the black asphalt on its belly, curving and shifting with the night. Steadily, I retreat down the empty street; looking from window to window at lights and decorations, and shaking a little every so often, so the snow doesn’t have a chance to pile up.

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Toys like these have a sense of timelessness. They don’t really belong to any particular place, and it’s easy to forget that they are just fabric and thread. Carnivals themselves are romanticized scenes of mystery, wonder and fantasy. This silly fish is just an extension of that. Illusions and embellishments – lies – there is no real story here, so I might as well go inside. On the other hand, from this distance the fish is my personal side-show. Snow is pressing and piling on the head and fins. Whether the inevitable trash pick-up day, or the molding, wet stuffing - it is a doomed thing. Maybe by watching it, I can learn something about disappearing. This must be an act picked up during its carnival days. A simple trick to make the crowed curious and then leave them waiting just on the edge of discovery. I wonder if my blue eyes can be seen, spying from underneath my father’s hood, underneath the all-consuming snow. All I can see through the whiteness are bulging brown eyes. Those orbs are no longer pleading. They evoke neither pity nor idolization. In the time it took to win the creature, it is out of sight, lost to the snow. I stand up and heavy powder falls from my father’s coat. I had forgotten I was sitting down. Turning to go back inside, I see the door, closed and bare, to my father’s house. Suddenly, a force of dormant panic awakens and surges inside me, like the thousands of pins and needles electrifying my legs. I rush to the cluster of trash, pushing away the burning snow with bare hands. Can it be saved, the wretched creature? Breath escapes my purpled lips as fog obscures my vision, already impaired in the deep blue winter twilight. Try as I might to fight through the gray matter of snow and paper pilgrims, trying to reach an end to this mess of frozen waste; trying with every drop of heated blood pushing through my veins – the carnival fish is gone. Snow drifts and whispers across the black asphalt on its belly, curving and shifting with the night. Steadily, I retreat down the empty street; looking from window to window at lights and decorations, and shaking a little every so often, so the snow doesn’t have a chance to pile up.

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