We
were in the shower when two magic goldfish fell out of the ceiling, plunging
right through my eyes, and began to sink; as they were sinking they drowned,
and as they were drowning, they screamed, and the screaming sounded like a
song, and they died with that song and my insides melted into liquid gold that
flowed out of my mouth and flooded my stomach and spilled from the ends of my
fingertips and toes and in little gasps from my pores; I nearly suffocated on the
pleasure of it as it ran and slid out of my throat to let in strips of air and
I fell to the ground and shook and couldn't open my eyes–couldn't do
anything–anything but shudder as the ripples rang through my whole body where
everything became acoustic as she ran her fingers through my hair, sending
strings of echoes down my neck, my back, and I couldn't speak, and when I
opened my eyes I saw that all of the gold had poured out of me and covered her,
I worried that she’d become a statue, but then she smiled and I looked down and
realized I had one magic goldfish in each hand and they asked me what I wanted,
but I barely had enough breath to breathe, and if I'd had more breath I would
have used it to laugh or maybe cry, but I wouldn't have wasted it on two pesky
wishes, so I opened my fingers and let them slip down the drain.
Benjamin
Davis an ex-fintech journalist, recovering folklore addict, and the author of
The King of FU (Nada Blank, 2018). His fiction can be found or is upcoming in
*82 Review, Defenestration, Cease, Cows, Three Drops Press, and others.
