J u l y   2 0 0 3

Guest Writer

How about a fish story?
The pulsator
by Troy Eggleston

hat was a small cluster of galaxies, including a spiral and an elliptical. And this, here before you, is an extended cluster, including an irregular galaxy.

From an intergalactic vantage point we see ourselves halfway to the edge of the universe, which makes every star a potential sun; the large-scale texture of the cosmos confounded against your fingertips. A wingspan has not yet been discovered. And dignity, it is still choking in a sulfur-covered mist. You see, we are catastrophe. We are opaque infrared radiation, our vanity derived from countless seams, each a fragile component of the same thread.

Even now I am boring you with dramatic plagiarism, but I can hardly help myself. My magnetism betrays me. Is this clever? Not what was written above, but below.

There are many motivations toward becoming a falling star. The suffering, like an eradicated dragnet, exposed. Such is the irreverent nature in the beast: to subside in its feeble taunts and consume a heartier meal when the ego is threatened. Symbolism is not only a tool, but also a threat to the disconnected.

Okay, wait. Don't cast me off just yet. A story. Is that what you want? A story? How about a fish story? A unique, spectacular, strange-yet-lovely fish story.

Well, I would like to state, for the purpose of maintaining some velocity, that no painter trapped on earth could ever imagine a color so distinctive as Queen Henrie's goldfish. It was dumbfounding, almost frightening, to see such irrepressible beauty. Hmm. What do you think, if somehow engraved upon the scales of the goldfish was an ancient holy scripture that, once deciphered, was so pure it blinded the entire kingdom, setting everybody free? Is that contradictory?

Hold on. I can do better.

OK, this is what I am going to do right now as you are reading this. Is there any insurance in fate? Never mind. Of course there is. What I am going to do is close my eyes, open the dictionary that lay beside me to a random page, and let a divine word fall upon my fingertip. Ready. What letter do you think it will start with? I bet ... G. Nope. Wouldn't that have been bizarre if the word was God? But it wasn't. It was ... hold on let me find the Caps Lock so I can capitalize the word: PULSATOR.

Maria had an organic pulsator in her electric eel. No batteries required, just a pair of gloves and a yearning for pleasure. This long, curvy dream-weaver was a self-lubricating manifest destiny, exploring and conquering the inner disciples of Maria's lusting cavern. It started as a censored experiment but quickly turned into a shocking addiction. Just like crack cocaine, sex can ruin a person's life. And this was high-voltage sex. Here comes the tragedy.

One vulgar night, while enslaved by Mr. Pulsator's high-voltage prowess, Maria lost all control – allowing the slimy, slippery mass to slither deep inside her. That was for the kids reading this. Yes that is the letter S.

Anyway, she writhed and moaned in delicious pain, feeling an orgasmic tsunami rush its way across her sea of juices ...

Wait. Is this too "dirty"? My mind usually does not venture into such smut, so for the sake of the children and all concerned, please allow me to digress.

What I had in mind is similar to a shamed-superhero kind of thing. The eel, once inside, transposes all of its energy into her body, delivering the world's greatest climax but simultaneously turning her into a walking live wire. She soon becomes a depraved, reclusive, guilt-wracked struggling sex addict, starved from intimacy. Unable to live with this suffering, yet at the same time unable to take her own life, she begins to search for new meaning in picking up the shattered pieces.

It is then, while gazing down from atop her Manhattan balcony, that she witnesses a brutal murder. Curiously, she follows the killer into a local dive and ends up seducing him, not only satisfying her carnal needs, but at the same time making the world a better place.

Again I have veered off track. Okay, deep breath. Deep breaths, actually. Many deep breaths.

So there was this fish swimming aimlessly upstream, slashing his iridescent tail in the murky water, hurried and stirring. Yes, stirring round and round, upstream this fish was stirring round and round, hopeful in effect but frustrated just as well. And he arrived at the ocean one day, a vast temperate ocean, alone and searching for what he knew not of, this fish swimming aimlessly now in a colossal blue sea.

He swam for many years finding bits and pieces of the same thing in different places but his hurried analytical mind supposed them to be trivial and not definitive by any means. So he traveled on, passing other fishes who were apparently engaged in a similar search. Sometimes he would compare notes, so to speak, with these other fish, but this was only for the simple fact that he wished to derail any hope that they had collected upon their way.

Needless to say, he turned into a bitter, lonely fish still yearning for an answer, continually questioning his surroundings without even participating.

Do you see how it works? There is a small cluster of galaxies spinning, wavering. There is no correct analysis concerning their size or distance or success. Inside we practice our rituals, measure our consciousness against cryptic design.

We turn to applaud as if it were a feat, a fleeting feat. Ah. Yes, indeed. Or maybe not.

So there was this fish ...

E-mail Troy at leonchester@cosmo.com, and see his previous efforts in our archives.

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