“Sage,” by James Heflin
It had thunked upon the mahogany unbidden, bold as brass. Its mouth formed an O of polite surprise, its eye a cold absentia. The window? Barely open. The door? But who, with no one home? There was no note attached, and surely it could not purport to be menacing, for even the most evil among fish have such a watery vagueness of expression. One heard of fish raining upon the plains of Andalusia. He was a Pisces. But still. Nothing for it but the iron skillet, rosemary and sage. It tasted light, crisp, of the sea on a breezy Thursday noon. But cottony, an epic chew. His jaws were positively sore with its rubbery pleasures. He dreamed of a horizonless distance, attendant blueness. He woke with a salty thirst. To have another, he thought, would be an excellent fate.
— James Heflin