Once upon a time there were two fish, because I wanted them to be happy. But I couldn’t let their happiness last forever because then there would be no story. Perhaps they are mackerel — no, wait, they are tuna. With bluesilver scales and moon-like eyes, one large fish and one small one. A mother fish, I suppose, and her little silver son. He is missing, maybe. I may not know much but I know she doesn’t want him to be missing. She loves him, and I love him too even though I don't know who he is or why I have just now accidentally made him. The mother fish grows desperate with worry. She leaves her whole school behind and searches the ocean’s underworld for her son. Maybe she will find him or maybe she never will. There is no way of knowing, just like no one will ever read these words. Then again, no one needs to read them, it’s enough that I have written them. Maybe.
The mother keeps this story going because she misses her lost little fish. Secretly, of course, both the mother and her child and the ocean itself are only made from the labyrinth of my words. But words are enough to form her body for now. Swimming bluesilver through the impassive waters, her moon-like eyes are in desperation. She examines every place she can think of, but in an ocean of words its easy to get confused. There is an anemone. No, I take that back, my mistake. There was not an anemone. You see? Things are not what they seem because she is searching through the words you are right now reading. Finally swimming through these misleading sentences, she makes it to a forest of kelp. Some fronds wave bluesilver and remind the mother fish of her lonely boy: treasured memories are important in the cold purgatory of the sea. Maybe a memory is more important than the flesh, she thinks to herself. But that’s only because she is so desperately lonely. She remembers she once had happiness. The memory of happiness floats aimlessly in the sea of my words just like she does. She knows she has made poor choices in her lonely life, but it is important to endure these mistakes because they’ve shown this character (not me) who she really is.
Speaking of poor choices, just look at the mess I’ve made. I began this story as only a few careless words to distract myself, but now it has conspired into an ocean, and fish, and the fish are sad though you’ll remember I wanted them to be happy. It is difficult to be a fish and I am worried about them. And the fish are probably thinking to themselves, “Why am I sad?” and that “why” causes even greater grief and so on and the cycle continues forever, like these waves I am making by accident. At least I am writing about something large enough to be written about. But there I go again making mistakes: even though this story is supposed to be about the lonesome mother tuna, I’m bringing up my own problems like I always do. It’s wrong of me to mislead my fish, or you, but that is the kind of poor choice I now must live with. Distractions are the nature of the ocean. Anything can shift at a moment’s notice, making it difficult to find what may or may not be lost. Of course in a certain frame of thought there will always be a small son nursing at his mother, because love is in the heart. But this mother fish swims right on past her own heart for now, because I’m going to save that for the last place she looks. Her son must be somewhere, she convinces herself. Even though the ocean is vast, she thinks, every sorrow must come to an end somehow. Now I begin to wish that I knew the location of her poor son, because he is lost (as I would be) and lonely (as I am).
“Find my fish,” the mother implores with her bluesilver heart to someone or to me, so I will refocus my attention. Her plight has earnestly plucked my heart-string: I could not bear to be a mother without her fish. Understandably, she gets mad at me. And her anger congeals into an unconsolable notion that clouds her faith: she begins to think that I have hidden her fish. I am sorry, I did not mean to hide your fish, but you looked so unhappy being happy and I love you. I know she blames me for not helping her. She believes that I have forgotten her or even hate her. And I have learned that it’s not such a simple thing to make two fish who love each other, especially when these depths are so vast. Of all people, you, dear reader, understand what the ocean is like. Maybe you are even submerged right now. Are you breathing air or water at the moment? Or had you forgotten? See how easy it is to become lost? The mother fish starts to wonder if she even had a son to begin with, or if she is only wandering this lonely ocean insane. The glow of daylight lessens as she sinks deeper and deeper. Is there meaning in searching for him, or only when he is found? Will I just pick and choose my letters until I have died? Here in this ocean I accidently made I have tried to stay honest, and maintain it as an honest ocean. Therefore I want to make it clear to you that in most abstract narratives like this, the mother usually represents the ocean and she is searching for herself. Is something like that considered an important detail, worth keeping for the final draft? What I mean is, if you were to ask me “will she find herself?” then I would reply, “will you?” It seems I could not control the flood and now we’re surrounded by these waves that are simultaneously every question, every answer. When will her son be found? When will I be you?
The mother needs some hope if she is to continue her journey without drifting into fathomless despair. Another memory, maybe one of her son’s tiny fins, compells her into a reef that blooms red and fuchsia. But that memory of her son turns out not to be her son. Despondent, she leaves the colorful reef behind. She has so many memories, could one of them be her son? Or are they circling sharks hungry to rip her apart? Are the words of this story just a looming shipwreck where she huddles for safety? Even in her uncertainty she knows she once had a son, for she feels that something is missing, just as I do. Within the ruined galleon she can almost see my own pale ghost: I drowned with the sinking of the ship. And my ghost would probably say something foolish like, “You are the child of my dreams, if you ever live to read this shallow tidepool. If one word or two have helped you then I will be happy, or try.” I’m always embarrasing myself like that.
If the mother finds her thing, then maybe I will find mine. The thing is temporary of course, but the “maybe” is forever and gradually permeates our oceans so fully that it ceases to be perceptible. In search of that “maybe” I have decided, yes, that the mother should eventually be able to find her fish. I haven’t forgotten that once, long before memory, before the beginning of this story, the mother and her son were one. The water and the fish were one. You and I are one as well, if you even exist. The ocean is a vast realm to investigate, so at least the mother is keeping busy. In fact, she’s nearly frantic at this point because when she has explored everything where else can she search? What else can she try that she has not tried? Perhaps she found the answer once and had not recognized it. Maybe she will begin everything all over again abandoning any success she might have made. Or maybe I have lost my way and she has not. She at least understands her task: what do I know? I only made them, and you saw how easy it was. Was it wrong of me to do that? Would they be happier unmade? My sister is sitting in the other room, and when I tell her what I’m writing about she says, “Maybe some fish somewhere are happier than the fish in the story.” I like to think she is right: far away there are happy fish. I like to think that where they are, even the notion of hardship is laughable. But I suppose the reason it helps me to be a mother fish searching for her fish is because I’m searching for something to search for. Or have I already found it?
I’m beginning to regret writing off on tangents, as if I’m procrastinating, as if I am keeping this poor tuna from her son. I want her to find him, but am I even able to help her? If I were to say “Poof, here is your son,” would she be happy? If I prolong her misery, perhaps I can prolong her joy. It's the fricton she craves, I think, for that is what I crave when I am balanced. Would it be catastrophic if I got carried away by my own universe and stopped writing? Would the fish find happiness if their existence did not exist? I could be cruel and unmake their world if I thought it would bring them joy. I nearly typed their destruction just now, but deleted it because I felt the mother fish judging me harshly. So what should I do? Would she be happier if I conclude this story, or is she happier now with something to search for? When I began I did not know the depths to which these fish might suffer. I’d like to officially apologize to my fishy protagonist, because she believes that I took her joy and hid it away. Maybe she thinks I am unable, even, to complete the simple task of returning her beloved son. Just because she went and lost him she acts as if I have stolen him from her. Her confusion is as wide as the ocean and her faith is shaken.
Sometimes I feel like trading “should the mother find her son” for a better riddle: “why should I care?” I do care, of course, if only because by creating these fish I doomed them to unhappiness. But does the mother ever stop to think how many tries it took me to spell “unhappiness” in the last sentence? Would the unused letters I tried and discarded help her understand my meaning? Stop. It’s time for me to let all that go. She has suffered enough, and my guilt has eddied around and returned to me. I’m going to cause her innocent son to be discovered somewhere foolish where she should sooner have thought to check. Maybe he was always with her. Yes, I’ll allow the pair a joyous reunion — laughing, crying, holding one another and briefly holding bliss — because if I were to withhold my character’s joy from her completely, she would hate me as I might in her position hate my own author.