by B.M. Owens
Imagine swimming in a pool. No, imagine living in that pool. Imagine that pool being all that exists in the world to you. The pool is your world and your world is 35 feet wide and 12-20 feet deep. You are 20 feet long and swim in constant circles as children bang on the see-through glass tank. High pitched whistles sound and you breach but you’re not sure why. You’re given food. That’s why. You continue your circles, you’re making something. The water laps around the sides. Your fins guide the water with incantations others don’t understand—you don’t really understand them either. You swim and swim and you’re still here, swimming. A whirl pool forms at the center. This is it—You charge toward it, hoping the water sucks you in. That it’ll tear holes into the bottom of the tank—into reality. That it’ll pluck and sweep you into deep waters. That it’ll bring you home out to the Pacific ocean or, at least, drown you. But it doesn’t. The water settles. Your body is stiff as you float beneath the Florida sun. Maybe if you’re still enough the heat will melt your blubber and you can ooze out of here through the drains. The sun only blisters your skin but you don’t seek shade because you already know there isn’t any. This is all there is—this pool is your world. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 