Fish-eyed angels, mov. 3 -FINALE-: "A Melody Frozen in Time"

Jeremy sat at his desk. It was a desk like any other – made of wood, standing on four legs, and yet so unlike any. Its uniqueness was clear as day to anyone who lay eyes upon it. However, no one knew exactly what quality made it different. Was it the dark maroon color? The multitude of coffee stains, dying the right part of the desk a light beige? The laptop – the one with the huge, dangerous-looking dent on its side? No one could put their finger on it, but they all knew it the second they saw it. This was the desk of a writer.

Jeremy took a sip of his coffee and put down the indigo mug, too hard, again. Half the coffee made a happy leap over the edge of the cup, mockingly covering Jeremy’s mouse pad and hand in the hot, sticky liquid. Fuck, he thought to himself. He never said such words out loud. He licked the coffee of his hand and threw the mouse pad away – it had seen enough. High time it got its well-deserved rest.

Just another proof-read and that story was done. Jeremy always struggled with eliminating comma splices.

The plate smashed into pieces as it made contact with the ground. The chair was falling down for what seemed like hours. Bits of lasagna splattered around her on the cold wooden floor. The clang of falling silverware low, slow, deafening. Charlie could feel the vibrations on her cheek.

Jeremy let out a sigh. He could never find himself completely satisfied with his writing. Something always  seemed to be missing. Some bits, on the other hand, seemed to be too much. Like in this story – why did he use Charlie as a protagonist? It had been ages since he last saw her, talked to her. He doubted any of her actual personality or their history together bled into the story, but that was still a possibility, and he knew he would die on the spot if anyone noticed it. Jeremy took another sip of the now lukewarm sticky substance. Charlie would always tell him to cut down on the sugar. Maybe I should change the name, he thought to himself, but pretty soon he just let it go and left the story as it was. He wondered if that was because he was hoping she would notice it.

Jeremy opened another file. Another story he needed to proof-read before posting it.

I sat down on the wooden chair. It creaked under the weight of my body. I wondered how long it would hold.

Once again, Jeremy felt a bit silly for writing that. He was feeling much better than at the time. He knew Greg would laugh at him after reading this, especially at the “barrel-shaped part”, but at the same time, changing anything about it seemed wrong. He saved the document, closed it and shut down the computer. He put his arms behind his neck and looked at the ceiling fan. Its slow movements would always calm him down. He needed a break.

He stood up, stretched and walked around the room. He approached the fish bowl. It was a tiny thing, with only one little gold fish and a rock in it. He got it at a fair they all went to together all those years ago. To Jeremy, it seemed much longer ago than it really was. There were times when he was depressed about it. Times when he thought that it was all for nothing,  that now that everyone has drifted apart, there was no point in going forward. And yet, whenever he approached the bowl and looked at the fish’s gigantic glassy eyes, he felt happy. Because no matter what the future would bring him or how the present looked, he knew that whatever happened, happened. For better or worse. At least now he could make a living of it all. Those memories worked as some fantastic inspiration.


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I want to thank my wife for helping me with this series. If it weren't for you, there would be no fish-eyed angels, and even no Writing Lion, while we're at it. You are irreplaceable.