There’s a species of fish that has no eyes and is completely without color. It inhabits the (often subterranean) rivers of southwestern Madagascar. Within this water, they swim upside down. These tiny, delicate creatures deserve a story. Their only name is Typhleotris madagascariensis. Their only friend, it seems, is the water in which they swim. The following story is from the point of view of the water which holds them.
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I am one and many. I am water. I am life. I conceal much of myself from the world but am open to those who need me. Only the truly worthy are embraced within my form. Others simply visit me, use me, take from me.
          Whether I flow as a river or as a trickle, I feel the sensations experienced by every drop. My life is one of sensations, and I am shaped by forces of stone. There are two stones I understand, and the softer of the two I have absorbed knowledge from. It cannot bear my caress for long before giving way; it is made from the children of my distant cousin, the sea, and so it accepts my touch with grace. The other rock, sharp and unforgiving, is both guardian and enemy. It scares many away from my form, but when the unworthy press their luck, I am forced to envelop blood and bodies and corruption, even though it is not in my nature to cradle the dead and dying.
          Along my winding form, I feel warmth: Visitors, unworthy living things so unlike water and stone and sand and air, and unlike my little ones. The warmth is surrounded by little ripples in my existence where the Visitors use my body for sustenance. Warmth is not something I understand.
          My Visitors are often small. One of the many kinds is the Climbers. The Climbers are peculiar to me. I’m familiar with their fingers and mouths, but the harsher of the stones rarely ends them, so my knowledge is limited. When they do tumble into me, unresisting, I can identify a skinny tail and a softness over everything while the Climber’s warm, thick water flows into my body. Least beloved of my Visitors are the flat-beaked Flyers. I hear them as they rest on the jagged, harsh stone and discuss their journeys. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to leave my stone-encased existence, to exist as the Visitors and be so undefined.
          My favorite Visitors are the long ones. They are fingers grown in the time it takes me to wear away a layer of limestone. The fingers are wood and fibers, sent by a clever being beyond my reach. I know that each long one is related to the others. My knowledge comes from my body: I feel parts of my form flow into the long ones and away. Often, I sense the clever being at the end of my path before my connection is strained, as my drops of self disappear from my consciousness.
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Can you hear that? It is the sound of the other ones, who were once simply unworthy but can no longer be Visitors. Not Visitors. Not Visitors. Not anything but...
          Intruders.
          I am too quiet of a body to ignore the voices of the Intruders, the unworthy ones who take and take. I am blind, like the little ones who swim within me, but I can feel their voices, which means I can listen. Their noise echoes from the stone surrounding me at all times, yet my trusted guardian fails to harm them. Even when they take what is most precious to me— my little ones!— and end those lives selfishly.
          My little ones are to me what metal is to stone. They are the thing within I look to for beauty and a reflection of my best self. I feel as though they are an extension of my body, moving along my breadth, keeping me company in the millenia-long dark. They’re my oldest friends and equally blind progeny. The little ones’ forms are sleek, with no eyes. The Intruders are fascinated by my little ones, with their delicate fins and peculiar way of swimming. I never thought they were strange: they’re mine, how can I think them anything but beautiful?
          That same beauty is what dooms my little ones. I feel one fall from my grasp as an Intruder gropes my surface and that life—that precious, small, secret life, a life I nurture and give all I’m able to—fades from my world. Fades from all worlds.
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Every day, I feel as though there is no point in being here anymore. What happens when there are no more Visitors? What happens when there is no more life to feel and hear? What happens when more of my body is made of the unwanted parts of Intruders’ lives than water?
About the Author
Gina Savastano is grateful to have grown up in a household that encouraged creativity. She stumbled into a creative writing course at the University of Michigan, became an English major, was accepted graduated in 2020 with honors. This is her first time beomg published in anything (or at least, somewhere not related to a grade). You can find her as @GinaSAvocado on Twitter and @spritelyavocado on Tumblr, though she might not always be active on either account.