Swimmingly*

Holy guacamole, what was that?  I’m being sloshed around down here like undies in a washer.  Now it’s too dark to see.  What the hell happened to the sunlight?  Is there a storm?

I’m gonna to turn on my headlamp so I can count those damned taco trout and get out of here.  What? There it goes again—that sloshing.

Hey, are you guys listening to me?  What in hell’s name are you doing anyway?  Is this some kind of prank?

It feels like the pressure is increasing, like I’m being sucked down to the bottom.  What kind of fucking whirlpool forms in muddy lake?

There, there’s a light.  Looks like a line, like it might be coming through a big florescent tube.  I’m going to see what’s up.  Maybe a meteor’s struck or something.

*     *     *

Had to drop my weights to get up here.  The light is seeping through a slit.  I seem to be in some kind of tank.  Or maybe I’ve been swallowed by a whale.  Maybe the damned thing’s trying to suck me down into its gullet.  A whale in fresh water?

There is an air pocket up here.  I’m going to take off my mask and drop my tank so I’ll be out of touch for a minute.

*     *     *

Cough!  Hack!  Hack!  Holy guacamole, it’s smoke.  I must be close to a forest fire.

Just a minute while I get my tank back on and my mask secured.

*     *     *

That’s better.  I can breathe.  I think I’ve been skimmed off with water to fight that fire.  Am I going to be dumped?  Holy cayenne guacamole!

There’s no way to get to the plane or chopper or whatever from inside here.  I tried when swam up to the slit.  Couldn’t get more than my neck out of the water and the sides of the, the bag are too slimy up there to hang onto.  I couldn’t pull myself out.

I could try again, but why?  If the smoke doesn’t get me, the fire will.  If the fire doesn’t get me, the trees will.  And if the trees don’t get me, that hard ground will.

So I guess I’ll just have to tell you guys my last will and testament—and it doesn’t have anything to do with trout except that there are at least three swimming around in here with me on their way to the same frying pan.

Hell, my tank is running low.  So here it is: I bequeath to you guys all the damned enchiladas.  They’re in the fridge.

Tell Maria I love her.  I should have asked her to marry me last Sunday, but I got cold feet.

Wonder if I could use this wet suit as a parachute—Wait?!  HOOOOLY GUACAMOOOLE!!

*    *     *

Hello.  Are you reading me?  I think I’m hung up on a lodgepole pine.  My tank seems to be caught on a branch.  There’s more smoke than fire here, thank God.  Steamy smoke.

Forget that bit about Maria.  I’ll tell her myself.

END

*Writing suggestion #2:

News stories can inspire a story like this one which originated with a newspaper clipping I misplaced some time ago—but it made an impression on me.

Sunrise from Sea of Cortez
by Jeter Skeet