Free Edward Is Only a Fish by Alan Sincic

One
    HOW WET CAN YOU GET?

    Edward the fish watched Mr. Billingsly run the bathwater again. The white suds made it look like a Boston Cooler—ginger ale and vanilla ice cream all whipped up together in a froth. Edward wished that he could be swimming around in a Boston Cooler. Edward wished that he could take a trip to Boston to visit the famous Boston Cooler in the center of Boston Harbor, 650 times bigger than the bowling ball-sized fishbowl he was living in now. Edward wished that he could take a vacation.
    Mr. Billingsly left the water running while he ran outside to pluck a tangerine from one of the tangerine trees in the backyard.
    â€œTake it from me, partner,” said Mr. B as he hip-hopped across the floor in his bare feet, “nothing tastes better in the tub than a nice, ripe, juicy tangerine.”
    Whoomp! The fishbowl shook as the door slammed behind Mr. Billingsly. Edward swam around and around in his tiny circle of water. He tried to imagine what a tangerine would taste like, or what a tangerine blossom would smell like, or what a vacation to Jamaica, a trip to the nation of Jamaica, a dip in the tangerine-flavored waters of the Jamaican nation would feel like, but Edward was a fish, and fish do not get to take a vacation.
    The water sang a tune as it tumbled out the spout, like a piper and a drummer in a marching band.
    Ba-bam-bam-bam! Ba-bam-bam-bam!
    It was Mr. Billingsly. He stood at the window with a towel around his waist and a tangerine tucked under his arm. He was pounding on the door, shaking the water from his arms and his legs, and chattering through his teeth in the wind.
    â€œEdward! Edward!”
    Edward held his breath and popped his head out of the fishbowl.
    â€œEdward! I’ve locked myself out of the house. Open the door, Edward, open the door!”

    Edward blinked his eyes at Mr. Billingsly. He liked Mr. B. He liked the cowboy songs Mr. B would sing to him and the rain dance Mr. B would dance for him and the sourdough Mr. B would bake for him, but Edward was a fish, and fish do not know how to open the door.
    While Mr. Billingsly ran around and around the house, pounding at the doors and the windows, the bathwater bubbled up and over the soap dish and the washcloth and the silver platter of corn bread he was saving for later in the day. It was picking them all up and carting them all away. It was rolling out over the walls of the tub like an avalanche.
    â€œTurn off the water, Edward, turn off the water!” cried Mr. Billingsly. He was calling down through the kitchen chimney. “Stay calm, Edward, stay calm! Go over to the faucet and turn the water off!”
    Edward was very calm. In fact, Edward was almost peaceful. The water rolled itself out across the blue tile floor. It was very beautiful in the morning light, like a blanket of melted butter on a bed of blueberry toast.
    â€œDo you hear me, Edward?”
    The water licked up the stamps in Mr. B’s book of stamps— slurp, slurp, slurp —and swallowed them whole. Brick by brick, Mr. B’s sugar-cube castle— sssssssss-ssssssss —dissolved into a sugary goo. Boot by boot, Mr. B’s cowboy boots floated out of the closet and down the hall— clippity-clunk, clippity-clunk, clippity-clunk —as though they were taking themselves out for a walk.
    â€œTurn off the water, Edward!”
    Edward decided that, well, maybe it would not be such a good idea to turn off the water after all. Water is good. Everybody likes a drink of nice cold water. It’s water that makes the plants grow. It’s water that makes the clouds burst and the rapids run, that puts the snow into snowmen and the hurry into hurricane. Without water there would be nothing but a big empty hole where the ocean is supposed to be. Water is good.
    â€œEdward!”
    And besides, Edward was a fish. Fish do not know how to turn off the water.

Two
    THE BIGGEST OF THE BIG

    Blub-blub. Mr. B’s yellow-checkered