Fish Face

Is it safe? Is it safe? It must be safe. I don’t hear any fishing lures plunking into the water or boats with trolling motors plying the surface of my lake. Yes, I said my lake, even though these air-breathing humans treat it and those of us living in its water as theirs. I have been battling with one of them for almost ten years. He started this war, but he’ll never win.

It all started when I was just a minnow, darting helter-skelter, fascinated by my surroundings. My cousins and I were small, so we swam in a school for protection and stayed away from the deep water where the predators lived. No one told us about the killers living on the lake’s surface. We learned about them the hard way.

It started as a faint hum, barely detectable to our senses. The hum grew into an annoying buzz and rapidly became a sensory-numbing roar. A dark shadow floated in the water above us, stopping directly over our heads. We were young and allowed our curiosity to take control. It was the last thing many of my fellow school friends did. A large shadowy object sifted through the water, trapping many of my comrades.

None of this made any sense to me, so I swam to the surface for a better view. Careful not to expose my gills to the air, my face breached the surface of the water. That was the first time I spotted the human who would become my lifelong enemy.

He was younger than his companions and clearly a novice at what people call fishing. A much older man, possibly his grandfather, was instructing him on the correct way to skewer one of my schoolmates with a hook-shaped thing attached to a string. My unfortunate friend was now bait. Having seen enough, I was about to head for deeper water when the boy and I momentarily locked eyes. He laughed and called out, “Hey look, Grandpa, little Fish Face is watching us.”

“Fish Face!” Of course, I’m a fish. What other type of face would I have? I should refer to him as Human Face because that’s what he is, a rude, murdering human. My enemy for life!

This is a large lake, but fate continually ensured our paths crossed. The motor on his boat transmitted a distinctive vibration which alerted me of his arrival. My back fin twitched whenever his boat came close. The closer he came, the stronger the tremor became until instinct took charge and I would dive for the lakebed and wait. It didn’t take long before I heard a small plop, followed by food slowly sinking into the depths.

My stomach insisted I feed, but my survival instincts knew better. Instead of taking that fatal bite, I would lay still and watch another fish with less control swim in and chomp down. Seconds later, a line jerked, and it became human food. When this happened, I raced to the surface and leaped into the air to show my enemy he had failed.

This game of fish and human has been going on for years. Sometimes, instead of leaping out of the water, I place my face just above the surface the same way I did all those years ago and stare at Human Face. Usually, after reeling in one of my brethren, he’d lean over the side of his boat and scan the surface, searching for me. Our eyes would meet in acknowledgment, then he’d mutter, “Next time, Fish Face, next time.” Of course, I will never let that happen.

(This picture came from a competition a local newspaper is running. I'd appreciate whatever feedback and suggestions you can offer before I submit it. Thanks for your help)