rainbow trout
by another alice <deograin@usit.net>

i have a paintbrush now. i try to tell them but they don't seem to realize
exactly how important having a paintbrush really is, that long ago and once
upon a time god created the world with a paintbrush. but humans forget
things like that. sometimes me thinks by choice. they don't want to accept
how fragile their little lost reality really is (though it seems quite
obvious to me, with all the sides labeled "this end up" and "handle with
care") but the paintbrush will eventually tell me everything. all i have to
do now is wait. i had a canvas, once. i had three, i think, but i used them
all (can you believe it?) and then, of course, the fish got mad at me and
he wouldn't let me catch him again that afternoon. "where are your
flowers?" he asked, with such insistance that i immediately began searching
for that which i knew did not exist. "they seem to be lost," i replied,
even though that was quite obvious, even to the fish. i glance at the
one-way entrance of a rabbit hole to a wonderland labyrinth and ask the
curious door with the golden teeth if alice ever found the way out before
she woke up. "you've answered yourself," the door simply replied, and
though i could not argue, i decided to try. he remained silent, though.
(doors tend to do that, in case you haven't noticed.) so i snatched up my
toolbox and took my broken dreams elsewhere. considering these dreams were
badly in need of repair and needed some serious maintainence, i decided to
apply first aid and CPR and hold a ceremony for the dying dreams...we
called in a priest, but the dreams weren't catholic, so the whole thing was
kind of pointless, really. the little children with plastic tongues finally
nursed the dreams back to health with the multicolored lollipops and
stuffed toys from the gift shop on the first floor. the dreams were very
appreciative. after they checked out of the hospital, they sent the
children christmas cards every july (dreams have absolutely no concept of
linear time) until they grew up and had kids of their own. (naturally,
however, these children always believed in santa claus.) so the fish, he
winks at me, almost troubled, with a silver lisp in his gills. "you're not
going to grow up on me now, are you, son?" and this question sends me into
fits of laughter, earthquake giggles that shake my brain so hard its fluid
leaks out of the sockets in my eyes. "i guess that answers my question,"
replies the fish with a smile (as much as fishes ever smile) and
dissappears beneath the ripples and waves of a fading summerset. "come back
tomorrow." and, of course, like always, i already know that i will.