After nearly spilling the bucket by tugging on its rope handle, which was a few inches more accessible than the bucket itself, he sat up to see if there was water within. Eyes meet eyes in the strangest of circumstances. Something looked up at Captain Steevey. Still he lifted the bucket to his lips, eyes locked with the goldfish flitting here and there in its shallow watered, wooden home. Both water and the floundering fish slid towards the captain's open mouth. Frantic to avoid being consumed, the goldfish exerted all its strength to plant itself above Steevey's upper lip. Grasping with presumed nerves in its scales, the fish held tight. Steevey looked down, amused. He wiggled his lips back, forth, up and down. It held the strangest likeness to bull riding and that made him chuckle. He tried scrunching his lips and blowing both up with his mouth, and down with his nostrils, to dislodge the fish, but Steevey was yet to know the full strength of this goldfish's tenacity. So Steevey moved his face back over the mouth of the bucket and encouraged the life-desiring goldfish to slop back into its inadequate home. It does. And for the longest time, all each does is stare. Finally, Steevey breaks contact by turning his head to face the horizon. As he looks away, he slowly lowers his hand into the bucket. The goldfish, mightily concerned, seeks the farthest distance in the bucket from the hand, but can only dash along the side, hoping to be furthest from danger. The hand makes no attempt to grasp. It only lifts a bit of water out and pours it down its owner's throat.
"Have yeh got a name, squirt?" Steevey asks the fish, impossibly seeking a response. He waits. And expects, but nothing comes. Steevey thinks he sees thought formations in the fish's eyes. The fish could be searching vast data banks in that tiny brain it has, acquiring and organizing for easiest access all information related to human speech, vocal patterns, vocal tone variety, and regional mannerisms. If the information is being handled, none of it appears to be hitting the surface of expression. Steevey shakes the bucket back and forth. Not harshly, but just to watch the fish be buffeted by some captain-created waves. Angry, orange lips leap at Steevey. The goldfish bobs at the surface of the water, its head and eyes slightly above the surface for a few moments. The fish might have been saying, "Who do you think you are?" or "Stop it!" or "I'll give you three wishes if you only agree to set me free." Steevey considered the likelihood of which phrase it might be that the first was hoping to get across. He decided to chance it on the third one. "Ok, squirtish. You're mostly squirt, but partly fish, and here's my first wish. I want you to lead me to dry land with drinking water nearby and a fine woman to rent company with."
The fish just turned its tail towards Steevey. "Hey!" Steevey was disconcerted by the sound of his own voice. He half-tossed the bucket a few inches away from him. The water sloshed, but didn't spill. Then he crawled, with his useless legs dragging once more behind, him to some shade by the entryway of his ship. He closed his eyes, and briefly endeavored to leave his circumstances. All in things in half the time they used to take. How long Steevey had been asleep, he did not know. He had not turned the wheel of his ship for at least three days. He was on the easy road to resignation. "But what about Squirtish?" he thought. This time he shoved himself, hind quarters first, instead of pulling across the wood floor. One arm-powered lunge into the endeavor crammed a three inch splinter, attached to a hearty plank, into his rear. "OUCH!" screamed Steevey. Without dragging the whole ship with him, he tried to pull away from the splinter. Slowly it came out. With pressure on his bum, seeking to divert his attention, he pulled himself once more beside the bucket. He looked inside and couldn't believe his eyes. He blinked. Blinking could not dissuade the truth, for he smelled its smoky composition. In the bucket that he had positioned between his legs while he sat, looking down from above it, he saw a small, white coating of ash along the bottom. No Squirtish. No water. Just a little white ash.
Steevey hmmed and wondered. His eyes lead out towards the clouds and their shapely manifestations. He rapped his fingers on the wooden planks. He opened his mouth to rasp his favorite song:
Away we slip, away we slip
Into the farthest lands.
Where our dear belongings
And and faithful friends
Have never once dared tread.
And if the sea should gather thee
Into its fond embrace,
Remember only the love which drowned ye
When you first glimpsed her face,
When first man's heart did race.
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