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Any rational human being will agree- school is hell. Forced into single file rows behind Sleepy and Stinky seven hours a day creates disruption of the psyche. As years go by hormones and peer pressure build and build. And when high school hits the dyke bursts, sending the deluge. Darwinian battles erupt in hallways and classrooms, equally suitable adolescents fighting for limited resources in tribute to their hunching, hair-backed ancestors . The winners ease through all four years skimming on that well-earned respect and comfort. Meanwhile the losers (i.e., rational human beings) turn grudges to Pudgy, Shy and Crazy for refusing to ever join the fight. Physical abuse, emotional distance and social neglect are the new lives of these characters. The only mistake was believing participation was merely an option. Myself the love child of Pudgy and Stinky, hell seemed too placid to be school. As I was no swimmer against such a deluge, literally and figuratively, I took the coward's way out and delved into comedy. Class clowns earn respect through a quick tongue, tenacity despite punishment and that insatiable craving for acceptance. Soon, derisive laughter dissolved into a chuckle shared amongst friends. While scuffles and social neglect ceased in my adolescent years, I fought with the one bully no teacher nor older brother could silence; my own thoughts. Undetectable in all five senses, my brain roared in intangible fury. Vivid and disturbing fantasies raced across my mind's eye daring me to release them. Condescending phantoms scolded me for minor mistakes, lingering about long after the vindication. During class, when ears and eyes focused upon me for an ironic turn of phrase, an inner voice much like my own warned me of failure. Following the rise and fall of teenage laughter, that troubled conscience returned to remind me the students laughed out of pity. When night drowned my other senses and I succumbed to rest, these thoughts and visions reveled in a world free of distraction. Seven years after my first class the dissonance grew overwhelming. Searching for silence, I modeled after my parents and used their respective remedies in conjunction; sleeping pills from my mother, dry whiskey from my father. Today, while struggling to keep up to pace with my mate and child-bearer, I can still recall those years as a blur of exchanging doctors, constant surveillance and blame tossed between innocent and undeserving parents. Meanwhile those wretched ghouls and goblins within my mind softened, conscious of my mortality as their own. The sea around me fades. It's maternal squeeze loosens while water about me disappears. Sunlight above softens and waxes a perfect tint of white. Suddenly I am pulled in a detached state to a plaster and paint boundary similar to the one my parents forced me into twice a week all those years ago. Discomforting compared to the expanse of the ocean, yet harboring no threat nor incarceration. Details emerge from my memory and regroup with my senses. The smell-yes! the sense long forgotten in my aquatic state, is the first to return. An acrid, stinging industrial odor burns through my phantom nostrils. A layer of varnish, I sense, has recently found home in this room. Following the chemical burn arrives a sweeter aroma of nature. Before I can identify the other smells, my eyes assess the room about me. Free of clutter yet interesting to the view, the room lacks uniformity save for the pale mocha paint on each wall. Half-empty bookcases sit with framed sunsets, encouraging words and docile smiling bears holding the shelf's only books. Between the bookcases hung a framed, notarized and signed certificate of competency contrasting the room with it's bland and colorless design. Across from it on the eastern wall hung a rainbow of grinning children and a caption proclaiming the futile need for drugs. On either side sat similarly sized photos meant to instill serenity- mountain sunsets, a meadow in bloom; I wasn't sure which picture was on what side. Behind me and out of sight I knew there to be a door, irrelevant in my encompassing memory, yet possessing a nearly inaudible din of footsteps and chatter. In the corner to its right a potted dwarf tree was the exclamation point to any exiting appointment. I recognize it to be- with falling heart- the source of the nature smell. Before me a chocolate colored desk, glimmering beneath the perfect white light, radiated a monstrous stench of paint and varnish. It was arranged neatly, pictures nondescript in my memory on one corner, a bowl of candy beside a glass of water with a bulky computer glowing hot through the cold, artificial air. And on the other side sat a woman, her skin and pen a matching hue, head down and smiling at the notes I'd inspired her to write. "Now, Gregory, I want you to tell me about a time someone else's behavior has frightened you." Such a calm whisper of a voice soothed me in spite of the odd stresses she put on certain syllables, not typical of our country. I shifted my weight, the palms I sat on becoming cold and clammy. "Who does that 'someone else' have to be?" She glanced up at me from her papers. I made eye contact with the grinning abstinence kids. "It should be somebody you didn't know well." Her voice accented and fell in monotone to the rhythm of an unseen drum hit by lethargic hands. Here and there she drew out vowels, but punched every hard consonant with an echo of her mother tongue. "Did you have any neighbors you were acquainted with??" I cleared my throat and eyeballed my now empty water glass. Smiling, she scooted hers towards me. "Yes," I continued, ignoring her offer, "There was a mechanic." She set her pen upon the legal pad, coaxing my story from me. "He lived at the end of the block and worked on cars. Usually the cars from out of town, but normally the ones in the neighborhood. I guess my Dad visited him whenever there was a problem with our van, but they weren't friends. He never stopped by to visit us unless it was related to the car. Whenever he was around, there was something off about him." "Off?" She looked up at me, "How was he off?" "I can't really say. It was like his muscles were always tensed up on his arms and neck. He looked beat-up and dirty. His hair was always a mess or greasy, and he had scars all over. Whenever he showed up to talk to my Dad, I'd run into the kitchen and stare at him from behind the wall panel." "So, he frightened you?" "Well, it's not that he scared me, no", I shifted on my hands, "It's just that I never liked being in the same room as him. The way he looked made me uncomfortable. Even just hearing his voice was disturbing. It's like he spoke from his chest and could never make 's' or 't' sounds. I saw at one point that he was missing some teeth. His accent was thick and he had this high pitched voice. I couldn't stand hearing him talk." The woman smiled and folded her hands before her. "That's something I know all too well, Gregory. Sometimes people have trouble listening to me when I speak." She curled up her nose and grinned, speaking with a squeaky yet oddly local accent. "They want me to talk like everyone else." My eyes widened, and I failed to suppress a small chuff of laughter. "Yes, Gregory." She resumed her normal voice, "I know you can't help but notice my accent. A lot of people do. When I came to this country ten years ago, unable to speak the language, people began making a lot of assumptions about me. Just as you did about your neighbor, the mechanic." "Uh, to be honest, I don't know what you're talking about." She leaned back in her chair. "Gregory, in psychology there is something called the fundamental attribution error. And we're guilty it. Basically, whenever a person we may or may not know well acts a certain way, we consider this to be a reflection of their character. But, it could be the result of their current situation or mood and completely opposite of how they usually act. For instance, when I arrived and could not speak the language, many people thought that I was dumb. Sure, I couldn't drive a car well and the idea of navigating subway systems frightened me, but I was certainly not dumb. In my country I was privileged. I got a chance to study in school and get a decent education. But the man I asked help from could not know this. All he knew was there was a colored woman frantically asking for directions in broken English." She stood up and walked over to my side of the desk, stopping short on my side. "And he was scared, Gregory, maybe more than I was." She bent down at this point, meeting me eye-to-eye. "Just as you were when that man stood at your doorstep. He looked unhealthy, his voice was alien, you thought he was somebody to be afraid of. You never talked with him, you never got to know him, and yet you assumed he was dangerous." I began to protest, but she continued, "Everybody does it, Gregory. It is how we learn to spot danger. It creates the 'gut-feeling' we sometimes have about people. This man might have been as dangerous as you thought he was, true. On the other hand, he could be a loving father and devoted husband. He supported his family by doing what he enjoyed. And Gregory, that is what you have done to yourself." There was no breaking our gaze. Her deep dark eyes, oddly familiar, peered into mine. "Gregory, you are still just a boy. You think you are a man, but you are not. You have not yet gotten to know yourself, but you feel you have. You base it on minor things you have done in the past. You are not a bad person, Gregory. You just attribute mistakes we all make to personal failure. Even if you try to laugh and pretend you are fine, we both know you don't believe that. And Gregory, you are afraid of yourself before you've even been introduced." She stood up and walked back to her chair. I stared at her footprint on the carpet where she had just been. It began to appear sandy, wispy as if moving by at a high speed. "Gregory," she continued, "you do not know who you are yet. But you are young and there is no rush. You are afraid to live your life and discover new things. You cannot think that just because you have done something wrong that you are a bad person." I could hear the water in my ears. "I'm not entirely sure who I am." "In your situation, nobody does. But keep an open mind and be free to new experiences. Let those people you resist in, and when the time comes they will help you realize who you really are." The wallpaper grew back into the sandy carpet, strands whishing here and there with the pull of the water. I felt a sense of running, yet my legs were planted to the floor. "Remember that, Gregory." "I will."

"That's his boat down there!" Isthia's cape broke the surface, her blowhole opening and closing in rapid procession. Down below, shrouded in shadow and murk, the capsized boat rested bottoms up. "I never thought we'd find it again!" Meanwhile, I spy-hopped a few meters behind her, my blowhole open and never seeming to shut. This old girl, she passed by, kicked up dust and winked her eye. Oh how I envied her lungs. Even top speed was normal for her. "My memory's still fuzzy, though", she frowned, "I can't remember which way we'd pushed him. It seems as though we went that way....but no, we pushed him away from the boat, traveling towards the shore...." I took the deepest breath and submerged. "Towards the shore?? You mean...back THAT way?" "No, Gregory. I scanned this bay while we were looking for a place to hide. It's curved inwards along the coast, so there should be beach on either side. But...." She resumed murmuring to herself, unsure if we'd pushed him to THAT shore or THAT shore. A piece of trash, flotsam from the hurricane, floated by and I took it into my mouth for amusement. Let her think, I told myself. Humor her, because she'll pick one beach or the other. But no matter which one she picks, I'll assure her this WAS where we dropped him off. 'Well, what do you know, guess he felt the rain and debris was no fun and walked back into town. Can we go now, please and thank you?' It was a few seconds until I realized she'd left. Spitting out the old soda can, I high-tailed it up to the black spot in the distance. Was she determined to check on this guy and make a break back to deep water...or did she actually WANT to make sure he'd made it through? I couldn't decide for sure. All I knew was she was shrinking into the distance, and I was running at minimum capacity. It's no doubt I could have kept up to pace with her. It's just that...well, I didn't care. The distance to the shallows where we'd dropped off the man was only five miles. Along the way I vented my frustration on a haggard and startled turtle, beating it with a splintered plank of railing. Following my cathartic pummeling I came across waterlogged boots and shredded them to bits. A young squid dodging the post-Hurricanic (is that a word?) clutter found it's way into my stomach. Down below I noticed a deflated tire lodged into the sand, crabs and urchins already making a home for themselves. All the while, I expected Isthia to return and triumphantly announce the man had either run off to hide or died in the hurricane. Either way, my focus was getting us out of the Gulf. It was over an hour before I reached Isthia and the shallows. In the distance she swam in tight, giddy circles close to a figure eight. A dull melody buzzed under the hum of the surf above, her excitement anything but contained. Out of curiosity I doubled my pace to reach her. It wasn't until I swam beneath her and brushed a fin against her stomach that she paused. "Oh!" Her eyes bulged and pointed towards me, as if she hadn't seen me before. "I didn't think you were coming!" "Good thing I did," I replied flatly, "another hour and you'd be too dizzy to find your way back." She ignored my comment and pressed her rostrum into my pectorals. I giggled. "I was right! This WAS where we'd left him. Can you believe we swam that far during the hurricane?" Isthia's voice was shill, her words clicking out like Morse code, "How did he hold on? I was swimming as fast as possible!" "Did you forget his monster grip?" My dorsal fin twinged with phantom pain, "I didn't." Isthia cooed and rolled her belly skywards as we swam up and down the shoreline. "It's a surprise his boots stayed on at that speed! It's was like swimming in tar with him on us!" I rolled onto my side and pulled myself close, having to recalculate every tail thrust. "They didn't. I found them a few miles back." Isthia trilled inquisitively, "Do you remember where they were?" I sunk into her line of sight and showed her my opened mouth. "In my teeth! Is there any still stuck in there?" Our laughter went on at a volume to wake the whole beach up. Our childishness wound down with our swimming pace and soon we were belly-to-belly, inching forward at a gentle speed. "That was a good idea, Isthia," I humored her, "saving that man's life and all. I'll bet our pictures will be in the paper." "Yeah," she shut her eyes and pressed against me. "He's learned his lesson- the leading cause of hurricane deaths is stupidity." A shudder from her touch passed through me, halting my response. "I'm surprised you agree with me! The least we could've done was let him sink a bit. Maybe then his life would flash before his eyes. He would've reflected on all those stupid things he's done in the past." "Like fishing with the radio on." "Huh?" "One time I spent three hours stalking a small fishing boat. I planned to watch for big fish to come to the lure, then eat them before they bit. But the fishermen had a radio on and it scared the fish around the boat and even for a few miles! I nearly wasted away." Even I couldn't help laughing at this. Isthia liked people, but stealing from them wasn't a punishable offense in her mind. We swam up and down the coast for a few moments, remaining silent and breaking occasionally to breathe. The sun sank slowly into the west and the sky above the waves melted into an ocean of plum and crimson. From below we gazed into it's infinite depth, and it into ours, two seas pressed upon each other without ever touching. The receding sunlight tossed spindles of gold across the seabed and our faces, static yet perpetually mobile. My lover's flukes brushed the tips of mine and up around my tail. I brushed along her opposite side and up. What had once been two straight tails were now a intertwined, an infinite spiral with roots but no beginning or end. I gazed at her form, stripped with sunlight, shaded darker than in the hours when the sun was high. The silver and the gray met at a line, her body and my body met at a line, the sea above and the sea below met at a line. Eyes gazed up from below, meeting with mine. Did anything else exist, and did it need to? Her fins pressed against my sides, the perfect leverage to draw her closer to me. That soft fold of skin beneath her head met with mine. Our rostrums came together, the space closed between the rough distal protrusions. A tingling sensation, hot to the touch, formed near the base of our tails. Two separate fires met at a line, burning through the cool of the oncoming ocean. The heat could melt ice, but it couldn't push me away. It invigorates the body, fervent beneath plush skin pooling with blood. Beneath the heat, I felt a pressure. My member had awoken, excited by the temperature and pressing against the walls as we were pressing against one another. Every bit of space was in use and soon my tip burst through. It met fire on all sides, enclosed within her swollen lips and begging to burst through again. Another shudder, violent and lingering, rocked my body against hers. The fire had spread and the smolder stopped just below her face. I pulled her closer to me, as if snow around us and the fire could keep us alive. She was ready. I was ready. The tip of my penis prodded the swollen line, which gave slightly beneath the pressure. Inside of me my cock, swollen and crouched and ready to pounce, begged me to push. Our bodies pressed together, we were close, but not close enough. I gave a small push and my penis sprung past the walls of her pussy, into the heart of the flame. A foreign, brighter burning fire raged within her and my cock continued to charge in, probing for the hottest regions. My lover shuddered fiercely in my grasp, threatening to jump from my fins. Her vagina opened, with slight resistance, to accommodate my stiffening member. When it was sure it'd found her deepest point, my mate pushed against me forcing it a few bits deeper. Muscles deep inside pulled on me, trying for every available inch. I tried to pull back but she held me there, aftershocks rocking and shaking her body beneath me. As the pressure decreased I pulled my hips back the bare minimum and forced back in. Her tail, still wrapped around mine, trembled to the touch. The pressure returned and dissipated as soon as it had come. I pulled harder this time, noticing the resistance of her lips as my penis swelled even larger. She bucked into me, forcing me to depths not yet touched, to muscles not yet stimulated. Our bodies were connected. Tails wrapped about one another, fins interlocked against the other's body. Rostrums pressed together as if tied by rope. We were symmetrical, mirror images. Our bodies had amassed into one large dolphin, the rostrum taller than it was thick, the dorsal fins splayed out as the dolphin rolled on it's side. It's tail made brief, short thrusts propelling it nowhere in no hurry. My penis swelled further, meeting nothing but fire and pressure on all sides. One final flick of the dolphin's tail and I erupted with full force, attempting to extinguish the flames within. Isthia's pussy squeezed against me, holding me in place as while the shudders surged through her body. The fires within gradually exhausted themselves, smoldering and growing cool. My penis retreated with little resistance, receiving one final flex of her vulva before returning back within me. Her swollen lips gradually leveled, releasing a minute bit of cum into the salt water. The dolphin had split like a cell, now two separate and exhausted dolphins swimming belly to belly. Reluctantly, I uncoiled my tail from hers with haste blocked from my mind. She nuzzled the underside of my rostrum with hers, opening her mouth and pushing rows of teeth against it. It was exhilarating. We knew this couldn't be our last session. The giant dolphin would return again as it always does. But with racing hearts our blowholes shook with the urge to open and allow air in. Reluctantly we broke our grasp and floated towards the surface, two separate succeeding bursts of air blowing above the surface. We took our respective breaths and sunk down again, Isthia swimming beside we as we made our way through the shaded waters of the night. "That was the only reason I survived staying in the cave," I piped up unexpectedly, "I knew that would happen once we got out." Isthia nipped a spot above my fins. It tickled and we both laughed simultaneously. "I'm just glad we can finally move on, Gregory," she replied. "Me too." Isthia scanned the sandbar below. "But wait, we should be going south, around the coast." "You're right. I must've gotten confused. The sand started sloping off. I thought we were nearing the tip of the beach." Right away, we realized the peculiarity of this. The edge of the state wasn't for few hundred miles. How could the sand slope off to deep ocean so suddenly? Isthia turned to inspect the slope. "It isn't even sloping the right way. It's too abrupt. You don't think...." But I did. And so did she. In the confusion and mass panic of the hurricane, we pushed the man the opposite direction. He didn't land on the mainland. He was on an island.