Clear Plastic
Now
The sun was falling over the pool and Bo was starting to feel tired—until Zeke pulled out the fish. They’d been practising their backstroke in the warm water, eyes growing radioactive with chlorine, when Zeke surfaced, dark hair licked up on the left side of his head. He flopped out of the pool on his stomach, returning with the bag.
‘Tyler was selling them at the skatepark,’ Zeke said, grinning. ‘Ten bucks!’
The bag dangled plump and overfilled in his fist. In its belly hovered an equally plump goldfish.
Bo licked a droplet of water from the corner of his mouth. ‘How long’s that thing been in there?’
Bo didn’t know much about fish, but he knew that they probably couldn’t survive inside a plastic bag for very long. He wondered what it would be like to be so small, so surrounded, the plastic warping the outside world into a wobbly haze.
The fish released a single bubble from its mouth.
‘Is it sick?’ Bo asked, poking the bag, willing the thing to move.
‘Nah. Fish don’t die easy.’
The pool was empty. Afternoon sun soaked through the shade cloth, bright as runny egg yolk. Zeke set his eyes on the water.
Two Years from Now
Zeke walked barefoot on the wooden path, jumping from shadow to shadow. Every few minutes he would start up again, moaning about the burning wood or the aching of his legs. Bo wore his hiking shoes. Bo’s mum and Zeke’s dad chatted ahead of them, complaining about illegal coal mining.
Bo knew the path well. It overlooked the ocean, following the headland. They walked slow to avoid startling the stout wallabies hovering by the bushes.
He felt his breath catch when they made it to the gorge—that great slash of nothing hacked into the headland. It cut all the way down to the bottom of the cliffs, ocean rushing in through its mouth, slowly petering out until it fashioned a secluded little beach. Fish swirled delicately in the wash. Sometimes you could even spot a turtle or two.
‘My feeet –’
Bo aimed a kick at the back of his friend’s knee. ‘Sit down.’
They sat in the dust, Bo wriggling free of his sneakers as their parents’ voices grew distant.
‘How’s your mum?’ he said carefully.
‘She’s getting better,’ Zeke said. He pulled the sneakers on, not bothering to undo the laces. ‘I reckon she should be home soon. Then I’ll finally get a normal Christmas.’ He smiled.
Bo pressed his palms to the boardwalk’s burning wood until his skin began to prickle. ‘For sure,’ was all he said in reply. He removed his hands. They were pink and swollen.
It was Zeke’s thirteenth birthday.
Now
‘No. No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
The words were pathetic. The water of the pool sparkled, winking at him in the sun.
Zeke ignored him. He kissed the fish bag, smearing water droplets on the plastic.
‘Just five minutes,’ he said. ‘He wants to see the ocean.’
Two Years from Now
As soon as the shoes were on his feet, Zeke took off running, sending a flock of cockatoos screaming into the sky, not turning to look back or say thank you. His howling trickled into silence.
Bo stood, leaning against the railing that overlooked the gorge, patting his sweaty feet in the dust. It was nice, really. To have a moment to himself. Talking was a chore.
He thought of the dark rings beneath his father’s eyes, of his mother’s incessant migraines. The world was a noisy place. Maybe he was beginning to understand why they tried so hard to avoid it.
The water at the gorge’s mouth bubbled. As he watched, a flash of brown appeared in the wash, then disappeared again, almost too quick to catch. He leaned forward, expecting a turtle. Instead, an arm. A human arm. Attached to a human man.
From this distance his movements looked jerky and small, like a drunken puppet’s. Bo could see the red of his open mouth among the vast, painted ocean. He might’ve been screaming.
Silence buzzed around Bo’s head like static.
Finally, as quickly as he’d appeared, the man and his red mouth sank, the waves resuming their radioactive blue.
Vaguely, Bo wondered where the adults were.
The ocean didn’t speak. Neither did Bo.
‘Zeke, please.’
The line buzzed.
Zeke’s mother had died a week and a half before Christmas. From what Bo had gathered, it was a peaceful send off. She had organised her affairs, as Bo’s parents put it. Said her prayers. Kissed her son on the forehead.
To Bo, it felt like the best-case scenario. Zeke didn’t seem to see it that way. He hadn’t spoken a word, not for the entire month since. Not even when Bo had recounted the story of what he had seen at the gorge in gory, exaggerated detail, trying to shock his friend into speaking, into doing anything.
The drowned man was never found. Bo’s parents had contacted the coast guards, and later, the police—still, nothing. No families came forward with missing fathers or sons, nothing from friends or colleagues.
‘He was just—gone,’ Bo had whispered. Still, Zeke was silent. ‘Zeke. Say something.’
Time stretched numbly. Bo’s eyesight began to blur.
Now
It was a beautiful thing—that fat, round little goldfish, wriggling out of the plastic like it was shedding some too-big skin. The water was even warmer now, thick as sweat. Sunlight bubbled on the surface above them.
They had forgotten their goggles, so they watched the fish through a haze of chlorine as it meandered hypnotically along the bottom of the pool. The tiles were polished green and a little slimy. Bo ran his hands along them. Half the time, he forgot to breathe. It didn’t seem important.
They weren’t worried when the fish drifted to the deep end. Fish died above water, in the heat and the dryness. Not here. Not now.
Two Years from Now
It took two months. When Zeke finally spoke, it was almost too quiet to make out. Sitting on the cold floor of his bedroom, it made Bo’s head spin—like his lungs were taking on too much oxygen after a period of drowning.
It was then that Zeke told him about how it really happened. That it wasn’t peaceful, like his father had made out. That the kiss on the forehead had been interrupted by the nurses’ murmuring, buzzing like strange insects. That the beeping of the heart monitor had pierced the fog of Zeke’s mind like a needle, and the rattle of his mother’s breath vibrated in his chest, constantly, inescapably, right up until it didn’t. Even when he returned home, nothing was quiet; the phone rang hourly, neighbours rapped on the door. His father wouldn’t slow down, even for a second. The day it happened he’d made the decision to renovate the kitchen. Bo could hear the thumping of the drill even as they spoke.
When Zeke was finished, he simply sat, letting the words seep through the cracks in the walls. He looked at Bo expectantly, as if he was the one expected to fill the silence now. Which wasn’t right.
Bo opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. He imagined himself as a stunned guppy, gasping for air.
Four Years from Now
They sat on the veranda as the sky turned towards late afternoon.
Bo had arrived at his friend’s back door unannounced, dripping, holding his swim cap and demanding an explanation for Zeke’s failure to show up to their swim meet.
Bo tried to laugh it off when Zeke said, ‘Swimming’s just a waste of time, man.’
‘You stole these?’
Zeke nodded. Bo passed the cigarettes back. ‘So you’re hanging out with Baz now? All those guys?’
‘Guess so,’ Zeke said.
‘They’re like, nineteen, man.’
Zeke shrugged. He handed Bo the packet.
It was a little black box printed with pictures of dying smokers. Zeke didn’t seem fazed. He dangled the cigarette from his lips like they did in old-timey movies, cupping his hands against the wind, filling his mouth with smoke in a way that choked any further conversation. He coughed a little.
Bo shoved the packet against Zeke’s chest. The cigarettes tumbled to the ground, spilling out.
‘Fuck you.’ The words came out louder than he meant them to.
Zeke just stared.
Now
The fish died at 4:37pm. Bo knew, because it was at that very moment he noticed the screen above the pool office, flashing the numbers of a digital clock in blurry, neon red. Through the window a pimply lifeguard came into view, keys in hand.
They had turned away for barely a minute. When they turned back, they saw it.
The body was small. It floated on the surface of the pool belly-up, ripe and bloated, eyes staring at the ground, tail swishing along with the water in a way that was almost lifelike enough for Bo to fool himself.
Four Years from Now
Bo chugged the last of his water as he walked through the shopfront’s doors. Even though it was a pet store, there were hardly any real animals—a few birds, some greying guinea pigs. A wall of drooping fish hovering in grey water. Nothing to distract him from the clicking fan or the buzzing lights above his head.
Bo tapped the empty bottle against his thigh and cast a glance around the dusty aisles. He walked over to the fish tank, squeezed the air from the bottle, and plunged it through the gap in the lid. The water bubbled. Algae smeared itself on his sleeve as a fish, tiny and silver, was sucked up and out, finally finding itself capped inside the clear plastic. He shoved the bottle up his shirt and darted out the door. He caught the eyes of the girl at the checkout as he passed.
‘Dickhead,’ she mumbled. He wished she’d shouted.
At home, Bo tipped the fish into the bathtub and thought about calling Zeke. He swirled his fingers through the water, and decided that if Zeke called first, he would tell him to fuck right off.
He wasn’t sure why he’d reacted so badly. Both his parents smoked, and so had Zeke’s. It had never bothered him before.
The fish swam in mindless circles around the tub. It didn’t make him feel any better.
Now
Zeke’s mother emerged from the house, kissing each boy on the forehead as they buried the fish in the garden. Bo got the feeling they would be in trouble—but not just yet. Maybe tomorrow.
As they lowered the tissue box coffin into the dirt, Zeke said, ‘Do you reckon we’ll still be friends? Like, when we’re older?’
‘Of course,’ Bo replied without thinking.
Zeke looked like he wanted to say something more. Instead, he scrunched his nose and wiped his muddy hands on Bo’s shorts, smearing brown streaks over the denim. It was definitely going to stain.
Bo shoved him off. The air smelled like dirt and grass. Zeke’s mum brought out a plate of orange quarters, and they ate them with gritty fingers.
Six Years from Now
The beach buzzed with noise. It was a packed day—not ideal for Bo’s first real shift. He’d gotten through it, though. One of the senior lifeguards had even called him a natural.
Now he sat on the floor of the lifeguard tent, cleaning the cuts on his feet.
Zeke ducked through the entrance. ‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hi.’
Bo hadn’t spoken to him in two years. His hair was lighter.
‘I saw you out there today. Dad told me you were moving up. Pretty cool.’
‘Thanks,’ Bo said. He wasn’t going to say anything more. Then he changed his mind. ‘Make you wish you never quit swimming?’
Zeke laughed. ‘Kinda, yeah.’
The tent went quiet—but not completely. The waves crashed somewhere far away.
‘I was actually meaning to ask if you wanted to hang out, sometime this summer, or whatever,’ Zeke said, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. ‘Guess I didn’t realise how far we’d drifted. Figured I’d pin you down before you ran off to somewhere with bigger beaches.’ He grinned, a little awkwardly. ‘Maybe we could swim?’
Bo thought for a second. ‘You free right now?’
They waded out into the wash, the current tugging at their clothes and hair, salt splashing into their mouths as they talked about jellyfish, and riptides, and other interesting things that didn’t really matter.
After, they rinsed off under the community showers and left the beach without exchanging numbers.
Ash Shirvington is a trans man writing on Quandamooka country. In 2024 he was awarded first place for the State Library of Queensland’s Young Writers Award, having received runner up for the same award in 2023. Ash has published work in Kill Your Darlings and forthcoming work in Griffiths Talent Implied. He is currently working on a novel and undertaking a Bachelor of Arts at Griffith University.
swim meet lit mag 