The Talking Salmon

The Talking Salmon

What if there was a salmon that could suddenly speak?
Express rather clearly what it was experiencing.
And not salmon plural -- but just one salmon.
The first thing he would realize is that water, the medium itself, is not conducive to the verbalization of anything.
Secondly, he experiences loneliness. Try as he might, every other salmon only notices an uncommon amount of bubbles.
Thirdly, he finds that certain words are not pronounceable. His salmon-lips cannot form them, yet he longs to say them. For instance, he wants to tell other salmon 'This is water' -- and the last word cannot be formed. His brain has evolved beyond his lips. They do not bend, yet.
He swims. He wanders a bit, from the group. The sheer anxiety of knowing something foreign to others bewilders him in that moment. The current is calmer under a large rock, and there he finds himself -- swaying -- struck by an unfathomable thought. 
And yet the words are so clear:
Animals on land.
Never before has such a thing occurred to him. The words have created it. Surely this must be.  Else why would I be thinki…?
The salmon digs his snout into the riverbed, grains of it in his mouth. He scratches onto the stone - images of what he is imagining. And the others swim past, some casting a brief glance, but none really heeding the message. At least for the time being. At least for now. But a few, they do seem to linger a bit longer, before moving upstream.

-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2013 --