Sprats by Greta Kaluževičiūtė
Sprats are really not the point of this text. That said, one sprat is in a coma.
It lies on its side in a narrow bed of oil. Silver flank exposed. Mouth parted slightly. No eyelids. The machines beside it blink faithfully. A thin tube enters its mouth. The oil hums.
My family stands around the tin.
Someone whispers as if the sprat might hear. Someone says it still looks warm. Someone touches a scale. Our faces hover above the metal rim like moons.
We stand around it like fishermen who have forgotten their boats. We start swearing almost immediately. Arguing about depth, about tide, about nothing. One of us claims the sprat twitched.
For a moment the sprat is not a sprat.
Once married. Once undone in a way that left visible wounds. A real-life human being, if you'd believe it. He lifts up an amber glass as if acknowledging the horizon far beyond the tin. Precious liquid warms his throat. The sprat-who-is-not-a-sprat watches the light recede, as if something in him were following it out. The mouth still holds the shape of a name.
Then it is silver again.
Small. Glossed. Unblinking.
A sprat. A sprat in a coma.
Another sprat is online.
It does not move but the light changes across its scales. Blue flicker. Endless scroll. Click. Load. Tide in. Tide out.
My family stands around the tin once more.
Someone says it spends too much time like this. Someone says it should swim more. Someone laughs and calls it dramatic.
We are fishermen. We argue about currents made of light. About depth measured in tabs. About whether it should be allowed this far from shore. One of us swears it just posted something online.
For a moment the sprat is not a sprat.
For a second it is a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl lit from below by a screen. A real-life human being, if you'd believe it. Her face still, almost cruel. Inside her something heavier moves. Darker matter thick as brine, folding inward, settling into literary lines that hold.
The lines begin to move.
They slide toward the edge of her fingers. They gather at the mouth. They spill out in small silver rows, flank to flank, iridescent and glistening.
She does not look up.
Each sentence arrives already preserved. Already salted. Packed tightly against the next so nothing leaks.
She clicks.
The tide recedes slightly.
She clicks again.
Another line surfaces.
Click. Load. Tide in. Tide out.
Then it is silver again.
Held in light. Suspended. Translucent.
A sprat. A sprat online.
The final sprat is in love.
It lies very still at the edge of the tin. Not in oil this time. Not entirely in light. Just there. Silver throat exposed. A faint shimmer where the heart would be.
My family stands around the tin one last time.
Someone sighs. Someone folds their arms. Someone asks whether this is necessary. Someone says it won’t end well.
Our fishermen feet are set apart. We measure the distance between this sprat and the open sea with our bare hands. One of us claims it will drown. One of us claims it already has.
For a moment the sprat is not a sprat.
A real-life human being, if you’d believe it. A young man with the kindest eyes. A soul so clear it almost hurts to look at. There is so much life in him it spills at the edges. There is agony too, threaded quietly through the brightness. Something lost. Something still flickering. A flicker that refuses to go out.
He stands as if he does not yet know the tide is turning.
Do you know, I might be in love with this sprat-who-is-not-a-sprat.
Then it is silver again.
Thin. Fragile. Shining.
A sprat. A sprat in love.
I lift it between my fingers.
The oil clings.
Sprats are best eaten on dark rye bread,
pressed down gently,
with no family around.
———
Greta Kaluževičiūtė was raised by the internet. In her waking life, she does psychoanalysis and some photography (IG @nekocrime + eskimo kisses).
Comments
Post a Comment