SUDDENLY, ANOTHER FISH
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By Scot N. Moir
A fast moving river in northern climes. Early spring (perhaps March), banks frozen solid. A thin artery of dark, icy water snakes down the thawed centre, with ice flows of various size careering down the centre of that. Surrounded by open fields and rolling hills, no forest, very few shrubs. Mostly anemic yellow grasses with lichen covered rocks, ripping up through it at scattered intervals like Palaeolithic grave markers. Sunshine with no heat in it in a clear, grey-blue sky.
A single dark fish sits sunning itself on a rock jutting up outta the flow. Suddenly, another fish pops up with a splash, frightening the first, who jumps clean under before popping back up and settling. Together they look on intently. Up stream I see what occupies them.
A man, alone, almost naked, struggling to maintain his balance on a particularly large ice flow, the charred remnants of a fire on the surface behind him. The flow dips from one side to the other as he moves his weight, slipping and sliding, in an attempt to compensate, overcompensating each time, rushing back the other way before flipping into the freezing water.
The fish watch on in silence. At one point he tips too far to the left. He can’t compensate. He slides off into the water with a cry, a cry, a ringing cry, as the flow crashes back down onto the surface. Two splashes, his and its, his smaller, its larger.
The fish watch on in silence.
A moment later, his hand reemerges from the roil. He hauls himself bodily up onto the flow, and so there he lies, bareback on the frozen surface, heaving and panting.
The fish watch on, curious.
With great effort he finally struggles, first to his knees, then to his feet. He stands for a moment, trying to balance, the looks of something like a sort of happiness on his face… but then his feet give way, suddenly, for no other reason that their having given way, and he crashes onto that hard, icy surface with a breath-driving, death rattle moan.
The fish incline their heads.
Slowly, silently, he rolls onto his back, then over onto his left side, then off the back of the ice flow and into the water. He goes under.
The fish watch on in silence.
Bubbles rise for a moment over the spot he disappeared… then disappear themselves.
The fish depart in disappointment, the second first and the first a moment later, plunging under that same frigid water.
Fast moving river in northern climes. Early spring. A thin artery of dark, icy water snakes down the thawed centre, ice flows the centre of that. No forest, few shrubs. Anemic yellow grasses, lichen covered rocks ripping up through it at scattered intervals like Palaeolithic grave markers. Sunshine with no heat in it in a clear, grey-blue sky.
Scot N. Moir is a Canadian writer and storyteller. His writing for the theatre has been produced five times in association with Looking Glass Theatre (https://www.lookingglasstheatre.ca/past-shows). He has published fiction in Mnemotope Magazine (2026) and Labyrinth Journal (2026). His live storytelling series Dreamtime Theatre, is currently on tour (https://www.lookingglasstheatre.ca/dreamtime-theatre).