Spring 2007 Issue

"Complications of a Fish-Only Diet" by Michael Silber (prize winner)

I have never seen the pillar made of fireflies. By the time I return from fishing, autumn has come and the gliding leaves have drifted in to relieve the fireflies, who tumble to the pillar’s base and merge into the chocolate soil. I stay in the city for winter, when the pillar Metaphor is made of cardinals. And of course in spring—dandelion seeds. But I only glimpse the beginning of those. The most of us have to go fishing.

Let me tell you about fishing. The most of us go out from the city to any water we might find. Some have boats, others boots—it doesn’t matter much as long as we can find fish. Many veteran fishers have special techniques for nabbing them. I have personally developed a method for catching the rare goodmorningafteralatenight fish. I roll my eyes to every direction they can reach, exhale until I might implode, dunk my face in the water, and then inhale as I raise my head up again. When I cast my nets after performing this ritual, I never fail to catch a goodmorningafteralatenight. It’s a delicacy which few can claim. I can get at least triple the price of a cuddleinahammock or a smellofcutgrass at the market. I don’t take too many, even though I might get rich if I did. I’d rather not kill the last goodmorningafteralatenight fish.

You know what’s funny about that fish? It doesn’t even taste that good, but the some of us like it because of its rarity.

I learned that I will never understand the some of us, and I am very happy to be included in the most of us, the fishers. I learned it this past autumn when the fishers returned to the city for market and election. In autumn we sell our fish in the city and vote on the governing word of the year. This word, seated atop the pillar metaphor, dictates our actions and how we perceive them, good or bad. The word keeps us in check, a public reminder not to be an idiot. Anyone found ignoring the word, doing whatever they please, is banned from next year’s election, and can’t sell any fish. Except for the year we elected Forgiveness—nothing happened to anyone that year.

This past autumn’s market set off so well. The fishers set up the booths all across the city and at the docks for those with boats. You could hear the most of us hawking their catch on every corner.

Warmsandbetweenyourtoes here!

Unexpectedkiss—fresh from the river!

Laughingchildren, going fast!

My booth gets a line without hawking. I’m one of the city’s best-known fishers; I even have a regular clientele. They come first to see if I brought a goodmorningafteralatenight, then strangers see the line and decide to try my fish. Each customer has a preference.

The injured athlete, he likes the firework spice in the springlove—it flashes fast in your mouth, then cools into a gentle memory as you swallow. He buys enough to last the winter, so I always remember to catch plenty. The problem with springlove is they are very fattening. I watch the athlete’s middle spill further and further over his belt, and he is sad because he isn’t the beautiful man he once was. So he buys more springlove and feels better for the winter. At least he’ll stay warm.

Mothershugs never fail to make up at least a tenth of my haul. One devoted wife in particular buys a sackful each year. Mothershugs don’t have a complex taste, but an enjoyable one nonetheless. Kids usually eat a lot of them because picky eaters will decide they like Mothershugs and little else. But I don’t know if that’s why this woman buys so much; she looks too trim to have that many kids. She always brings flowers to market, and walks down the road that leads out of the city. Not much out that way—the arboretum, the whorehouse, the cemetery.

Maybe she brings the fish to the girls too ashamed to come to market.

I am one of the only fishers who will catch confessions. Most are too afraid to try because they sting if you don’t handle them carefully. I was only stung once, but the poison put me out of commission for an entire season. Still didn’t see the fireflies though—I couldn’t even get out of bed. Now I keep the fish’s barb around my neck, like a trophy or a talisman. Only strange folk enjoy confessions, like the man who dresses all in black. He told me that you will never taste a sweeter meat than on the bones of these fish. It’s haunting, he said. I won’t ever try it, but he pays well for them so I’m happy to catch the nasty buggers.

All these people came this year, along with plenty of others. I made a hefty profit, which would go towards taking a year off and exploring new places to fish. I had a good deal of money, but still not enough to compensate the expedition I planned to make. I wanted to buy lots of lumber and build a new boat to go out farther than anyone. I would cast nets in places nobody has ever approached, and return with hundreds of new fish.

I dreamed this dream on the way back to my tiny home at the edge of the city when one of the some of us stopped me. He never stopped grinning, and he moved like angry water. He grabbed me with frantic energy.

Heyyy buddy, how’s it goin’?

His voice had a low giggle underneath every word.

You’re that fisher who can catch goodmorningafteralatenight, yeah?

I nodded.

Come with meee, buddy. Some friends of mine want your help.

Not a social worker, I said.

Reeelax. The help is compensated.

I followed.

Soon we passed by the pillar Metaphor. The fireflies had all fallen to the ground as usual, and the wind was finishing twisting the leaves into a column that shot into the sky. Soon the new governing word would rest on top of the pillar.

Sooo, what do you think it’ll be this year?

I reminded my guide I had been fishing—like the most of us do—and didn’t know what was up for election.

Riiight. Sorry, friend. It’s Caution, Success, and Justice…again.

Justice is an old favorite. I’m not too fond of Justice because it lets the some of us judge what that is. The most of us get cheated under Justice. I said I would vote for Success if my sales were good, Caution if they weren’t.

The strange-talking man smiled like he had won.

He took us to one of the tallest towers in the city. Not as tall as the pillar metaphor, but grand nonetheless. It was round and smooth and conical—a giant, windowless spike. I knew immediately I was to meet a very powerful some of us.

After a thousand candelabras and several, several flights of stairs, we arrived in a chamber made of gold, where five men sat at a crimson table. In the center of the table, a fire pit roared with flame. Everyone’s face was half in shadow.

The biggest chair held a large, pale man. He had no hair on his head, and covered his eyes with a silken sash. He raised his chin as if to smell me.

You are the fisher? he said.

I said I was.

I have had your goodmorningafteralatenight. The flavor is the rarest I’ve ever come across. How do you keep them so fresh on the long journey back to the city?

That’s my secret, I said. I’m not too protective of that, but nobody wants to know how fresh your spit can keep fish.

The pale man nodded and grinned. Were his teeth sharpened? Maybe the firelight played tricks on me. He bid me to come over to the table. In front of him he had a strange fish which I had never seen before. It was covered in barbed spines—clearly poisonous—and a large fin in the back. This was a fast fish, hard to catch and harder to keep. The scales seemed to change color depending on what angle I looked from.

I asked what kind of fish it was.

The pale man offered up a small plate with cubes of fishmeat. Taste, he said. And don’t worry—it’s only poisonous on the outside.

Normally I let someone else taste a strange fish before I partake, but I’d never before been offered a taste by the some of us. And oh…

While I tasted the fish, I could see through walls. The existence of existence brought such pain and joy I fell to the floor and wept. It was too much, too much. I welcomed the vomit as it cleansed me of the awful pain.

It’s an acquired taste, said the pale man. The other four men at the table mumbled agreement.

I said it tasted like shit to me. Then I asked him again what kind of fish it was.

It’s called a truth.

Kind of a strange name.

The pale man stood up and removed the sash from his eyes. They were colorless—or all colors; I couldn’t tell. He said this is the rarest fish in the world.

Who cares if it’s rare when it tastes like that?

He laughed. You most of us—always thinking about fish sales. We don’t wish to sell these fish. We have developed a liquor from the truth that lets people see things as the some of us see them.

How do you see things?

He turned his gaze away from me. Oh, it’s all so beautiful. We want to give the most of us this drink as a campaign for Caution.

I said I figured the some of us would like Success, or Justice. Everyone in the room laughed.

My boy! Just imagine if the most of us looked and saw Success atop the pillar. Then they would try to be great and become the some of us. Who would be the most of us? And Justice, well…Justice is a carousel. The most of us do something the some of us don’t like, and we go back and forth disobeying and enforcing until the fireflies leave the pillar again. Caution will keep the most of us in line by itself without our help. And since with our new liquor, they will want what we want, they will agree with us. Now you know; you know a great secret of the some of us. It’s better for everyone this way, isn’t it? It makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?

Maybe it was the remnants of the fish, but I said he got it right.

He picked me up from the floor. We will distill the fish, boil them down to a palatable spirit for the most of us. It will let them see the wisdom of Caution over Success or Justice. Your job, he said, is to catch enough truth to make our drink.

I told him I didn’t know where they were.

Out past the horizon, in the deepest waters.

My eyes widened. Nobody has been that far.

One fisher has—our man. But only his boat came back. If you agree to help, it’s yours.

What kind of boat?

The kind you’ve dreamt of. The fastest, the finest.

I agreed—as long as I could have some more of the pieces on that platter. The men at the table laughed, shook my hand, and gave me two more cubes of truth. They told me a man would wait for me at the docks with my new boat.

Before I went to the docks, I went home to think. It seemed if Caution won, then I wouldn’t be able to catch many of the more exotic fish. No more confessions, for sure. And maybe no more goodmorningafteralatenight—is it cautious to net a species so rare? That’s the problem with these words the some of us put up for election: you never know what will come of them. These were muddy waters. Maybe, just maybe, the truth would help me think it through. If I could keep it down. I braced myself, and swallowed another hunk.

It was easier this time. The taste exploded a voice in my head, and knocked me again off my feet.

What is poison, what is pleasure? I would sail tomorrow to find the truth, and favor with the some of us. But before I slept, I wanted to see my ship.

Most shipwrights use the wood from the deep forests outside the city. The ships are rich brown to start, and covered then with thick pitch to seal it tight. My old boat’s pitch was so thick I could not see the ship at night—and neither could the fish. They swam unafraid right into the keel, letting me know with their knocks where to cast my nets. But this ship could not have been wood—it was clear; light shone straight through so that only by the sunset could I see the frame. Maybe it was the glow of the clouds, maybe the material itself, but it seemed slightly pink. No shipwright in the most of us could have formed this thing. It seemed sculpted out of the waves. The water did not even ripple against it as it bobbed in the harbor.

The grinning man stood by the anchor post.

Heyyy, what do you think?

Can I go aboard?

It’s yours, man.

The deck felt so fragile, yet so strong along my hesitant steps. I could see nothing between my boots and the water but a slight glimmering. My hand felt wet as it ran along the rail I knew must be there but couldn’t see. But feeling my fingers, they were still dry.

Hey. What’s this thing made of?

Like it? It’s raaare man. Real rare.

What is it?

Watermelon sugar. You gonna do it?

I disembarked, the feel of the rail still on my fingertips, the voice of the fish still stirring in my head. Yeah, I’ll do it. Tomorrow.

The next morning I took my new boat and traveled past imagination. No fisher had ever been so far. The ship was so fast I made weeks of travel in hours. I wondered why I’d never seen another ship like this, or heard of them. Usually the some of us parade their most expensive toys around. It worried me. Years ago, when Wisdom was on the pillar, we fishers came up with a saying for dealing with the some of us: “Never trust a treasure hidden.”

Night had fallen when I arrived at the mark the men in the spike had charted. Fishing in darkness made sense—it’s the hardest kind of fishing, but the most exotic fish emerge from the depths at night. I hoped the truth would glow, but knew rare fish do not call attention to themselves. The first night I caught many fish, but no truth. I caught some unconditionallove, some perfectsong, some epiphany, some honesty. The last two are perhaps the rarest fish anyfisher could hope to catch, so I knew I was in the right place. And even if I caught no truth, I was living my dream.

In the second night, no truth.

In the third night, no truth.

By the fourth night, I realized I would require a very special technique to catch this fish. Time was running short—election took place in two days. With a desperate heart, I swallowed my last chunk of truth and hoped for an answer.

This time I lost control of my limbs. I moved like a string puppet, without thought or desire. I stripped my clothes and lowered myself into the water. Then I grabbed my confessions barb, held it out before me. I closed my eyes as the truth’s meat plunged the poison thing deep into my chest. My blood leaked out into the water while I hung on the side of my boat. It was all very warm and hazy. A pinprick on my leg shook me from the daze. I struggled back into the boat to see what had happened, as the water was too full of my blood to see. And there, thrust into my leg, was a flapping fish covered in spines. I knew that iridescent scale—I had caught a truth.

Never again, I thought. No fish is worth all that. Weak and fuzzy, I turned the boat back towards the city and set sail. The spiny beast still flopped and pulled against my leg. Its poison ran fast through me, straight to my head. I thought I heard it whisper:

I taste bitter through a blindfold.

That was when I learned I did not like the some of us. I tore the fish from my leg, but the spine remained. I fell unconscious long before the boat crashed into the docks.

I awoke back in the golden room in the spike, naked still. The pale, sash-eyed man held the truth with pride.

You got one! Or it got you. He touched the spine in my leg.

I recoiled. I won’t catch these for you, I said.

What do you mean?

It’s too difficult. I almost died.

Can anyone do it?

Once.

So we just get more of the most of us to do it. Tell us how.

No.

What?

No. I won’t tell you.

The pale man and his wailed and steadied themselves against the table.

The pale man stumbled back and lifted his sash. Why not?

Nobody should catch this fish.

But it’s so rare, so precious.

You were wrong. It’s poison inside and out.

The seated men whispered behind the roaring fire. They beckoned the pale man to hear their secrets. Returning to me, he said, do you remember what the governing word is this year?

Yes.

What?

Obedience.

Obedience. You are disobeying.

Tall men in confessions-scale armor slipped through the door and lifted me off the floor. I could not see their faces or hear their breath. But they moved so softly.

The pale man drew close to my face, baring his fangs. They were sharpened. He said I hereby ban you from the market and the election. You will spend the year in prison for your impudence towards the word, and the some of us. He turned away and stroked his new fish. I saw him prick himself on a spine just before I was hauled out of the room.

Success won the election, I hear. Now it’s winter, and I can see the cardinals spiraling up to the sky from my prison window. My confessions barb still hangs from my neck, above the scar it left. Sometimes it burns, but then I just remember how much more painful that truth was. That wound won’t heal. I’ve tried a thousand times to take the stinger out, but it remains, as I remain in this cell—for now. The some of us stole the fish I caught out beyond the horizon, and got even richer than before.

It’s funny though—that doesn’t bother me so much anymore. I never got to keep the fish I caught anyway, and I used all the money I made to keep fishing. I’ll go back to fishing after this year, but I think I’ll just eat what I catch and not come in for market. And for now, I sit and watch the pillar metaphor go through its cycles and circles. Sometimes I even catch a glimpse of Success, when the sky is clear enough.

And in the summer, I will see the fireflies.