Fish Night
No one in town could come to an agreement about when the fish started appearing on the shoreline. It was a coincidence the first time but swiftly became a town spectacle after the twentieth or so incidents. What started as a single fish washing up on the sand, soon turned into a pre-packaged industry. Like rations after a blockade, the fish would be delivered in a small, white gift box complete with a satin ribbon on top. What’s more is that everyone in town got one, personally. Little-by-little, one-by-one, a delivery would come for that lucky resident with their name etched into a manila tag that was attached to the creme strip. And when they opened it, there it would be, that same fish, just like the others before it, and a plain note card laid on top of it with three simple instructions:
Debone
Cook
Eat
At first, no one dared to abide by the anonymous fish’s rules, even after all the anticipation they spent waiting for it. They thought of it rotten, or poisoned, or just flat out creepy. Some would refuse outright, tossing it back into the ocean right then and there, while others let it fester in the bins until trash day, anything, to get the damn thing over and done with. Some would even give it to the local strays or chop it into mince for the birds. However they could refuse, they did, but that also was met with the repercussion of having continuous deliveries of fish, until the task was completed. It got to the point where curious onlookers, awaiting if they won the grand prize that day, would go as far to get upset, hurling obscenities at that person until they finished their duty. Afraid of the social pariah, needless to say it was a reluctant effort to prep, cook, and serve the fish. But when the last bite was finished, so were the shipments.
It should be noted that there were no health concerns after eating the fish. No one got ill or sick, there were no fevers or sudden deaths, in fact nothing happened at all. It was just another day, like it was, another fish. You’d think it’d be rotten and all, however long it was dead, but it wasn’t. It was all the things but. As word-of-mouth grew amongst those who had the chance to taste the delicacy, they all found that they couldn’t describe what it was they were actually tasting. It was all of the things. Sour, sweet, tangy, spicy, bitter, salty, earthy, smoky, and zesty. It was the only thing they agreed was stranger than the whole ordeal itself. And it was that sentiment that sent the community into a frenzy. All of a sudden, people couldn’t wait to try the fish for themselves. They would get up early in the morning, make their way down to the shoreline, and wait. After a while, tens of people turned into groups, all hoping that their name was drawn that day so they could have the pleasure of eating the mysterious fish.
At that point, a certain haughtiness began permeating the air. It started with intellectual discourse about the origins of the mysterious sender of the fish and then think pieces from self-proclaimed “fish connoisseurs.” Then there were the social groups from fish fanatics to non-fish believers, to fish activist circles. In short, everyone had a say about the fish. It would consume small-talk at the dinner tables, kids in the parks would argue about the coolest super power they would get if they ate it, there was nowhere in town you could go without mention of the fish! When it started to become a status symbol, hard lines started being drawn on the shoreline with each section trying to become more and more distinct than the last. Still, the fish remained center stage. It became an act of God–an offering for His most loyal and faithful followers. It became a symbol of wealth. It didn’t matter if you were amongst the elite, the upper echelon, or the 1%, ostracization spared no one. For the poor, it became hell. Homes started being broken into, people were being robbed left and right, violence erupted in the streets randomly, and a new wave of scams emerged resulting in many hospitalizations for sweating, headaches, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, breathing, swelling, and numbness. Little was done about all of this, perhaps a public service announcement or two, and the fish craze ebbed and flowed like the tides. It wasn’t until six months later that the craze came to a hard stop.
It all ended with a man named Adam Brinksly. He was awoken out of his sleep one morning, bright and early, by one of his kids who happened to be watching a live stream of the shoreline. They were yelling in excitement, almost speaking in tongues, trying to tell him his box had washed up. Adam made nothing of the sort, minus a small chuckle, but still he got ready, and began making his way down to the shoreline. At the beach, it was a celebratory occasion. The fish fanatics were greeting him, congratulating him, and tossing confetti in the air, as they wished him good fortune. Adam was confused in his elation, to say the least, and he felt like he had just won the lottery. As he scooped up his box, started walking away, people began patting his back for a job well done. On the way home, Adam had an involuntary skip in his step. He wasn’t sure why, but he was happy about bringing home his bounty to his wife and kid and to talk about how bizarre it was to be celebrated for such a frivolous thing. He was about a block away when a small blade pierced him once, twice, twenty-three times until life drained from his eyes. Adam was found in a pool of his own blood, the fish ripped from his hands, and the culprit nowhere to be found. After that, patrols would begin to occupy the beach every time a new fish showed up. A small vigil was held for Adam and his family, his sudden death marking the beginning of a new tradition: Fish Night. It was the only day of the year where people could come together and enjoy a feast of fishes. Following that, there was to be no more talk of fish again.