Maybe she is a crook, dutifully hunting for her next bite on the whim of the prodding sea air. My nibble on her lure is sincere and swearing. We promise our unmasked selves, our vast insecurities. Watching the fish make circles around the glimmering plastic was a pleasant pastime of mine, for their watery dashes would stay permanent in the sea, like the lines of a pencil filled in a playbook, and sometimes I would tease them and erase their marks with a quick flutter of my tailfin through their plans. She, the fisherman, would come daily, early in the morning when the sun barely cast itself through the cold, cold water, but don’t mind me, for I guess the water is below a comfortable temperature, for I have seen many of the seamen fall unexpectedly into the upper levels, lash around and dash for the other world. Then, once they return to their boats, they cover themselves and start shaking, for our two worlds are only comfortable when the creatures that were born from one are separated from the other. I have seen many go to the other side and never be seen again, and I believe it is not for the better. Sometimes, I think we should just stay where we belong and not be so adventurous. There are cruel things on each side. During one night, cruising along the reef to meet a friend, I came across the body of one of the others from the other world. His skeleton had become part of the reef, the bones blending in with the bright colors of red and blue, looking like a flag. The cages of his rib wrapped around so delicately that I did a few spins through it to see more spirals and admired his accepted shape to the new world for him. For a moment, I did pity him, for I knew he couldn’t have survived long as I know my friends do not survive long once they are finally caught.

I want to take that lure of hers now and forget its glitter and delectability. It sounds very simple, and some may say it is and later label me gullible. But I am a mere bass, which would look handsome on a wall, wrapped in a plaque of wood and cheap glue. The fisher has a drumbeat that attracts the dogs and I am not jealous, I just bubble and drift to the surface from time to time for a glimpse at the beautiful fisher, her trousers pulled high on her waist and her shirt tucked in tightly with a thin, brown belt. I know I am to be fed to the dogs eventually because I may be too small, but I do look forward to the gutting, I finally will be able to see what I am made of, those intestines hanging out and looking so gruesome and moist. I’d like to say that they will be comfortable slices, but I know I don’t deserve that, not with all my teasing. All those fishermen who hovered over our coves in the past were full of passion, yet I haven’t been truly caught and hung up to now. Does that say something true about me, or something else? These stories I tell are just that, simple plunging nightmares. Let’s all be better people in our worlds, ok you fishermen?