Frank and She by Alena Zhang

Winner of Thunderdome 2018-2019: Day 1. View the prompt here.

In the beginning of the world, you know, there was a fish. She didn’t mean to exist, but she tolerated her physical dimensionality with good old-fashioned patience. On a Tuesday, God came into existence. He declared two things: that there would be light and that it was a
Monday. So the fish tossed away her old calendars and accepted her spirituality without fuss.

A couple days later the fish found herself dropped into something very small and wet. It was the ocean. What she thought was that she been dropped serendipitously into a new dimension of existence. Whether it had existed all along, bold and blazing in the eternal void, or if it had come like beams from God’s fingers, love had entered her little life and blew it up. What I mean to say is that Frank was a gray lampetra fluviatilis. He had no jaw but she loved him, and by the grace of all that was holy, they were married on a Sunday.

And then there was fish sex, and fish babies, and little bubbling sounds of fishy pillow-talk, but really she and Frank were not bothered with all these lower-order concerns. What they could find they would eat; what they could digest they would eat; what they could not digest they would eat anyway. None of that mattered. The couple hovered against the tides like seaborne hummingbirds and contemplated theology, philosophy, and art; painted lovely pictures and wrote many lovely songs.

It was on a Thursday—I think—I tend to lose track of these things—that God created man. And you know the rest. He fumbled with a tree until he had a pole, fumbled with some rocks until he had a spear, and thrust it into the great big body of water until he had a meal.