Fisheye

• Nic Anning, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2013

I peer out of the glass sarcophagus; the bounds of my life, but not the terminal of my existence. The outside is close but unclear- the inside already too familiar. Whilst I have only been here for a fraction of my life, I am forced to believe my life has existed for several seconds. The nature of my actions drives me to remember that I have lived beyond the confines of my current life. Whether it is a memory of my own, or the integration of ancestral instinct and dreaming, I have been a part of a morphing community. Those communities I have met are completely isolated, until the pink haze intervenes. When considering these “memories”, I gravitate from joy to stoicism. Integration is impossible as my presence is temporal.
Where I originated from, I was swarmed by those identical to me. Same shape. Same colour. An unrecognised prerogative. Similar as individuals. Though exotic as a united form. The pink haze selected me to be a display in a foreign realm, for it to be appraised for its devious selection. I am the epitome of its fear and wonder, but am suppressed by such qualities. When confronted by my raucous, it exhibits its power, and propels me toward the light. It’s happened repeatedly, though I black out before I can comprehend it. When awoken, I am in a new environment. Looking around at this community, their plight is similar, but appearance immensely different. Their deformities and battle scars assert their existence- previously proud, aesthetically pleasing, but now hopelessly tattered, drifting entities with an unsung past. Though they cannot speak my language, they remind me most of my supposed origin. It is an unspoken safety that indicates belonging and a communal sentience that defies the logic and purpose of an individual.
The pink haze approaches the right wall. Thunder clashes at empyrean, and my sole sustenance descends lazily. Ethereal and fragile, it disperses in a shower, mottling the ground with its shadow when confronted by the superficial light. I am compulsed to consume it. Both gluttony and aversion bring discomfort. Engaging in the competition may take from the mouths of the surrounding elderly. However, should the haze’s bounty be unrecognised, it dissipates- emulsifies- and poisons the community until the haze thrusts its form into my world and clears the miasma out of sympathy. Unannounced. Indiscriminate. Approaching half-past too late. Though highly effective. The issue is resolved until it delivers its next “gift”.
One of the elderly individuals is struggling. Exhausted, yet content, it gasps in the hope for a greater opportunity to distribute its story. I comfort its final convulsions, inheriting its past, present and aspirations. Whilst painful, its loss is a gain to an unbeknownst community of the future. The repetition numbs the conscience. However, the future is obsolete and unpredictable. I am required now as an individual. And I shall remain a listener and an evolving individual, until the pink haze rips me from my equilibrium once again.