Twenty Minute Fiction: You Touch the Bowl

The room is entirely too quiet. You move toward the strange altar with three fish holding up a bowl. There’s no water inside the bowl, but you put your hand close to it anyway. As you pull back, you’re tingling. Realizing what’s started to happen, you try to race for the exit before it can overcome you. There’s a river just outside… if you can just make it in time…

You stumble as your legs suddenly become fins. Inching toward the door, you hope that you can make it outside before you feel the skin starting to separate from the back and sides of your neck. The air is achingly thin. You can’t breathe!

The change washes through you now, like too much watercolor through thin paper. You crawl a few more steps on your hands before you have no more hands anymore. Just fins. Desperately, heaving for some kind of breath, any breath, you flop the last few feet toward the door. Unblinking eyes distorted, burning in the unprotective air.

Everything hurts now. You stop moving, but slide into the water’s embrace.

You swim away, remembering nothing of your previous life.

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