by Boye, Kody
Under his breath, he begins to whisper.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for though art with me, thy rod and staff.
Timothy Anderson cries.
His body is a machine of pain.
The gears are turning, the bridges are burning, the bolts are cracking and the nails are whacking. It is without cause and without care that Timothy is in pain. He does not suffer, if only in the minds of others, and he does not cry, if only in the eyes of some.
To those who can truly see, Timothy Anderson cries.
He cries for love, he cries for fate—but most importantly, he cries for pain.
Arms to his chest, he curls into a ball and lays down to die.
To his knowledge, the pale horse has not come.
To some, it has already passed.
Timothy Anderson is a child. Wrought with disease, abuse and filth, he lives a life that is, and never was, fit for him. It is in time of illness that those plentiful and full of heart should gather round and offer condolence, if only in moments of passing grace.
When men won’t try, and when boys begin to die, the world turns upside down.
Twist, turn, reload, shoot—his bullet is in your gun. It is you that has the chance to shoot.
An explosion of a thousand bombs can go off inside a sick boy’s body and no one will stop to help.
In a desperate fit of anger, rage and hurt, Timothy Anderson throws himself across the street, through traffic and all it has to offer.
This is the day I realize who the boy is.
My hands in my pockets, I relinquish my hold on material things and extend my arms for him.
A horn sounds.
A cacophony ensues.
Bones, metal, cars and rust—one is right, three are wrong, two are earth and one is lust.
In but a fraction of a moment, a domino effect occurs.
One boy down, three cars next, two trucks before and one big-rig after.
Suffering ends with the sound of a head against a horn.
Lying prone, Timothy Anderson breathes one last time before he ceases to exist.
His glossy eyes stare at the one person he thought could help.
Graced by God, a single, bloody sheet of paper falls from the sky.
Encrusted on its surface are three words—three words that could never be granted to a boy who wanted one thing and one thing only.
Styled in blood, written in hurt, his message was clear.
Please, the paper said. AID Me.
Life in a Fishbowl
I don’t know how to start, but I’ll start like this. My name is Bill, and I’m a carnival goldfish. Now, if you don’t know what a carnival goldfish is, it’s one of those fish that never, ever die. One of the fish that can’t die from old age, or from tank sickness. A carnival fish is one of the fish that can only die from accidental stupidity, or the cruelty of an owner.
How am I telling you this story?
Well, that’s another matter entirely.
The old man who sold me gave each of us fish a small amount of powder that he put in our water, depending on what kind of fish we were. Betas got a grain, koi got what could fit on the tip of your thumb, like that. See, now us carnival goldfish, we get a little more, because we’re less expensive. We only cost twenty-five cents half the time.
Yeah; sad, I know.
Anyway, we get a short sprinkle of the powder, which the old man poured in the center of his hand. Now, right before he was about to pour my sprinkle into my bowl, he forgot about something. He picked up another thing of powder to check on it and, apparently, some of it got in his hand.
I dubbed that power ‘The Talking Potion.’
So, that’s how I’m talking to you, for starters.
I guess I’ll tell you about how I came to be where I am, huh? It’s better to start there than anywhere else.
Little Timmy and his big mama came into the pet store one day. Timmy ran up and immediately said he wanted me, the little fish. I was so, so happy, but I couldn’t reveal my secret that I could talk, much less understand.
So, Timmy bought me with his twenty-five cents, then named me Bill.
After they brought me home in my little bag, they put me in a small glass container with a few pebbles. Now, mind you, I can’t die, but an air hose would’ve been nice. Normal fish die without one. Most parents just say ‘fish die’ to their children when they do die, but the truth is that we goldfish can live for a long time if we’re taken care of.
Come bedtime that first night, Timmy asked to take me to bed, which he did. Then come the following morning when he was playing in the tub, I joined him.
Thank the heavens that the old man’s magic powders work as good as they do, because I would’ve been a dead fish. I’m not stupid. The old man put all his knowledge into those powders.
So, when Big Mama comes in to help Timmy, she gasps as she sees me slowly but skillfully avoiding the little boy. She plucks me back into my tank, expecting me to be dead. She lets out a shriek when she knows I’m alive. (To this day, I don’t know if that shriek was a good one or a bad one.)
Timmy wasn’t allowed to bring me into the bathroom anymore, much less take me to his room. Big Mama set me up in the kitchen, where I got to hide at the bottom of the tank under a little treasure chest while Princess, the cat, tried to get me.
As the years grew on, I lived. When Timmy’s voice started deepening, he was allowed to take me into his room. By then, they’d given me a light inside the tank and an air filter. And by then, Timmy’s mom was gone. Dead, Timmy said. She died in a car crash.
At the time, I felt bad. I mean, Timmy was hurt; who wouldn’t feel bad for him? He’d lost his mom and was now stuck with his step dad, who hadn’t done much for him his whole life.
Timmy talked to me a lot. By now, I had let on that I was a little smarter than the average fish. I nodded when I agreed with something and moved back and forth when I disagreed. Timmy knew he could only ask me yes and no questions shortly after I revealed my intelligence.
That was me, the magic eight-ball, except I wish a fish and didn’t babble like those things do.
The problem started when Timmy’s step dad stopped coming home. He’d come home for one day, be gone the next two, then be back for a few minutes before he left. Timmy started asking me where he was going.
I didn’t know; I was only a fish. I may have been able to talk, but I wasn‘t a mind-reader by any means.
‘Bill,’ Timmy said. ‘What if Dad doesn’t come back?’
I shook my head, and at that point in time, I think I actually frowned. I’m not sure, because I’ve never frowned. All I know is that Timmy sighed and closed his eyes.
‘You’re a smart fish, Bill. Do you know where he might’ve gone?’
I moved back and forth. Again, Timmy sighed.
‘I miss him,’ he said. ‘Since Mom died, he… My step dad… He’s the only thing I’ve got.’
I nodded. I swam to the end of my small world and pressed my nose to the tank. Timmy smiled and set his hand on the glass.
“You’re such a good friend, Bill.”
And I was his only friend. When he told me that he didn‘t have any friends, it made me feel bad. Timmy, a thirteen-year-old boy, shouldn’t be sitting in his room talking to a goldfish; he should be spending time with his friends.
‘You know, you’re the only thing I really care about, right?’
I knew that. He always bought me new toys or special food when it became available. Timmy was a good boy, the best friend a fish could have, but he was too dedicated to me. Maybe it was in his nature to be dedicated, and if so, whomever he decided to be with would be very lucky.
‘And you know what, Bill? I love you.’
I nodded. It hurt me to hear him speak so passionately. I shouldn’t be his best friend, I just shouldn’t.
That phase didn’t last for long, because Timmy’s step dad eventually let up on whatever
he was doing. With the step dad home more often, Timmy had become a social butterfly and was rarely ever home. This pleased me beyond all words.
As he aged, he grew into a fine young man, one on the honor roll and the football team. The girlfriend was nice. She’d come over and wiggle her finger in the tank, then shriek in delight when I’d swim up and bump her. She was a good person. Her name was Mary. Mary was a good name, I just knew it. Mary was good for my Timmy.
When Timmy finally moved out on his own, he took me with. He went to college and worked long days and hard hours to keep himself in school. He eventually graduated from college and became a technician. Then he married Mary and she had a baby not a year later.
Through all of this, I could feel the world changing. It wasn’t a physical change, but more like a change in the air. Maybe it was because I wasn’t aging, because I was still alive. Timmy had been five when he got me; that had been twenty years ago.
I’ve always appreciated my life. It’s made me feel good about myself. The thing I like is that I bring so much happiness to Timmy. His friends come over and he brags about how I’m his ‘never-aging fish,’ then they laugh it off and say he’s joking.
Timmy’s not joking, and that’s what makes me warm inside my small body.
As his children emerged into themselves, they too appreciated me. They quickly picked up their father’s habit of talking to me whenever they had troubles, and I always listened. I served a purpose, a good purpose, one that made Timmy and his whole family happy.
But time seemed to flow so fast. It only seemed like the day before that his daughter had been born, then she went to college. It only seemed the twins were born the minute before, and then they went away to Europe to study at the tender age of sixteen. Then Mary passed away. Timmy talked to me a lot those first few years after Mary passed, then he stopped.
It hurt to know that I was only there as a pet and not an actual person. When Timmy came to my tank, he usually didn’t smile. Those times he smiled made me feel special, like I had so many years before.
And then, just then, he was older, a man with white hair and a long beard. Timmy was old, much older. I was so old. Almost a hundred, at eighty. Me and Timmy were separated by only five years, yet I never aged. He aged, but I didn’t.
And then came the day when Timmy passed. I knew he was gone when his drink slid out of his hand. He didn’t move, didn’t stir, didn’t make any noise. I then realized that I would soon be gone too, because even though I don’t age, I still need food to survive.
I had finally been given the answer to the question I had desired for so long. I now knew that immortality, while painful, could also be a beautiful thing. I had brought Timmy so much happiness in the eighty years I had been with him, and that was all that mattered.
And finally, I close my story. For those of you who have taken the time to listen to it, thank you. I know that I was the first of my kind, and now I believe that I am the last. If I am not the last, I pray that the fish who receives my gift will be given a good home. Because, in the long run, a good home is always the best thing, and a best friend is what makes life worth living for.
Delilah
Delilah Amberough stood at the base of a hill, looking down at what her life had become. Loneliness, isolation, death—all were staples in her already-complicated existence. Life only existed within the walls of her village, marking humanity’s true passage of survival. Green stapled the ground, only divided by rough, dirt road; the occasional shrub littered the side of the road, separating their houses with their sought-after greenery; and the very hill on which she stood bore the only tree in the area—a maple, large and wide with limbs that extended into the sky like fingers yearning for the old world.
Outside of that, nothing but dead, dirt and rot ruled the land.
It chilled her to no end to realize that they may be the only people left in the world.
“This is pointless,” she whispered, falling to her knees and crossing her legs. “Why even bother?”
What the doctor asked for was something she could not give. No matter how hard they tried, they could not bring the dead back to life.
Why me? she thought, tugging at her hair. Why me, when there are so many others?
She hadn’t been the only one blessed with this gift during the great dying, so why would the doctor turn to her, a simple seventeen-year-old girl?
It doesn’t matter anyway, because no matter what I do or say, he’s still going to use me.
As long as she wanted to remain within the walls, she had to do whatever the doctor said.
Sighing, she stood and made her way down the hill, back to the doctor and his somewhat-twisted ways.
“Veronica,” Delilah said, leaning against the front desk, “could you ring Jason and say I’m here?”
“That’s Doctor Anderson,” the older, heavyset woman said. “And yes, you can go back, he’s expecting you.”
“All right,” she frowned. “Thank you.”
She couldn’t understand why Veronica didn’t like her. As far as she could recall, she hadn’t done anything to the woman that could have made her mad or upset. But, then again, Veronica could just not like her for the bizarre gift she had.
It’s not like I can help it, she sighed. I’d be much better off without it.
She chose to ignore Veronica’s reason for disliking her and instead continued down the hall, stopping only when she came to the doctor’s office. She raised her hand, knocked, and then pushed the door open, peeking inside to make sure she hadn’t disturbed the man’s progress.
“Delilah,” he said, looking up at her. “I’m surprised you came.”
“Of course I would. Why? Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“You’re late.”
Delilah looked up at the clock.
As Anderson had said, she’d arrived thirty minutes late.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right. Close the door—I don’t want anyone to see what we’re doing.”
“Don’t people already know?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean they need to see it, right?
Good point.
Turning, she closed the door, then crossed the room to where the doctor stood. A clipboard lay on the counter, a few papers folded over to allow Anderson’s pen easy access.
“Are you ready?” he asked, looking up at her.
“Yes sir,” she nodded.
The body lay on an exam table under a thick, white sheet, the contours of the cadaver’s limbs bulging and indenting the slick fabric. It only further reminded Delilah that she had stepped into something far worse than the end of the world, something far worse than anything she could have ever imagined.
“You know what to do,” the doctor said.
She nodded.
“Of course.”
As if afraid of disturbing the corpse, she took slow, careful steps, extending her arms as slowly and gently as she could. She’d experienced the shock of having a freshly-expired corpse involuntarily jerking a limb. Doctor Anderson had always assured her that such reactions were just electrical pulses going off in the body. Delilah sometimes believed otherwise.
“Something wrong, Delilah?”
“No,” she shivered.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Shaking her head, she took a deep breath and reached for the sheet.
The body of a middle-aged woman came into view as the fabric came down. At first, Delilah felt sickened, repulsed even. As always, the nausea passed and was soon replaced with a sense of dread. This woman—who had been alive no more than a few days ago—now lay dead on a table, indifferent to her surroundings and the people around her.
“You know what to do,” Anderson said, setting a hand on her back.
Delilah kept her silence, tossing the sheet to her side. She stepped around the table until she stood at the woman’s right side, took a deep breath, and pressed a hand to her chest.
Wake.
A tingle started in her heart, quickening her pulse. Sweat broke out on her brow and slid down her face, coating her cheeks with perspiration. A drop slid off the tip of her nose and landed on the woman’s face, at the beginning of the bridge of her nose.
Aunt Claridia’s eyes opened.
Death filled their surfaces.
“Good,” the doctor said, scribbling a note on a clipboard. “Forty-five seconds from touch to reanimation.”
Forty five, she thought. My fastest yet. A record.
She waited, forcing the tingle from her heart and into her shoulder. The effort left her breathless. Rich, if clouded, oxygen entered her lungs with each inhale, and left with every exhale. At first, she thought she would pass out, or maybe have a hard attack from the energy she had to use. But, as she figured, she didn’t. The last of the tingle left her arm, entered her palm, and entered the woman’s chest, arching her back off the table like she’d been shocked by a defibrillator.
Only in the movies, Doctor Anderson had said. You never see that in an ER.
You never see it on a dead body either.
“Three minutes, Delilah,” he said, looking up at her. “Did the energy leave your hand?”
“I’m a witch,” she whispered, almost unable to believe she possessed such powers.
“Delilah?”
Propelled by newfound strength, the corpse of Claridia Johnson pushed itself into a sitting position, turning its head from Delilah, to the doctor, then back again. Once settled on her savior, Claridia opened her mouth, revealing a black, bloated tongue. It wiggled, slicking its teeth with saliva that no longer existed before sliding over her lips. Delilah briefly considered the possibility that the corpse was thirsty—parched, even—but said nothing, not even when Jason turned his eyes on her.
“You’re aware that you’ve beaten your previous record by three minutes, right?”
“Almost half,” she mumbled.
“Delilah?”
“She’s alive,” she whispered.
“No—she isn’t. Aunt Claridia is dead.”
