A Croaker's Tale

We made our life in the Gulf. It was a difficult life, but it was a life nontheless. We were a small race of fish, and, as the ocean food chain works, we were near the bottom. Our name, as given by the landwalkers, was 'croaker', due to the drumming sound we often make. We have other names, but I personally prefer croaker.

When I was young, I was under the stupid impression that survival would be easy. Me and another croaker, whom I guess you could call my friend, would often tempt fate by taunting the trouts and catfish. We would simply hide if they attempted to devour us. I think that I truly realized danger on the day my friend was near-decapitated. We were foraging by the ruins of a collapsed bridge when, with no warning, a crab gripped onto my companion's back. He screamed for help, naturally. I swam at full speed towards him, attempting to dislodge the beast. My body bounced off his shell. I was persistent, however, and relentlessly attacked it. The crab eventually retreated. Unfortunately for my friend, there was an inch of flesh left connecting his body and head. This event forever made me wary of my kind's predators.

I was much older when this next event happened. I had joined a small school by this point. Many fish grouped into schools, not so much for companionship as for the fact that, in a large group, it was more likely that a different fish would be killed. Our school had about 30 croakers. This number was constantly changing, as new croakers were constantly joining and/or dying. Almost all of us were veterans at carnivore avoidance. But enough about us, lets get on with the story. The school was, as it often was, foraging, when several ladyfish showed up out of nowhere and began eating our members. As we swam away, a rumbling sound reverberated through the water. Our older members recognized the sound. "Trawler!", the cry went. The majority of us, including me, swam to the surface. I saw some of the slower fish get entangled in the nets. The ones who made it to the surface believed they were safe. Wrongly, of course. A pelican swooped down and swallowed the unlucky fish nearest to me. Another one attempted to feed on my companions. The fish it had chosen happened to be more intelligent than most, however, and jumped out of its mouth. Before it hit the water, seagulls swarmed it. I watched in horror as the birds tore apart its body with their beaks. Scales ripped off, fins shredded, and the eyeballs pulled as if they were a string of goo. As the pelicans divebombed more of our school, it soon became apparent we were being forced to choose the lesser of two evils: the strangling nets below, or the flying demons above. I chose the nets. As the trawlers pulled us upward, I began to wonder what my new life would entail.

Some might think my new life worse. Some might think it better. I personally couldn't care less, for I have no real choice in the matter. The trawler was rancid. That is all I can say. The captured ones were forced into a small, filthy pool with hundreds of others, a quarter of them dead. Disease spread like wildfire. To make matters worse, several of the fish claimed that we were either to be sold to fishermen or fed to the seagulls. I don't know if that was true or not, though I do know many were sold to fishermen. My story ends as I wait in the trawler's storage area. I know not my fate. Farewell, whoever may hear this.