From Something I’m Working On Today

The first time Shawn does it, it is an accident.  He is nine years old, and when he comes home from school his fish is belly-up in the bowl.  It is the third or fourth fish that has died in his care—it’s okay, he knows that’s what fish do—but he does wonder how long the fish has been like this.  Shawn puts his hands on the sides of the glass, and leans his face down close to the water.  He stares at the tiny curved body.  Then a brightness comes erupting up from the center of him, he can not control it, and the room is briefly filled with a dazzling white light.  It shoots down his arms, hotter, and his hands feel tingling and flushed.  The fish twitches, twists it’s body back and forth two times, then gulps, breathes.  Alive.

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