Rainbow Fish Quotes

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and they're pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody's be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way—I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.

If you don't want people to look at you, Park had thought at the time, don't wear fishing lures in your hair. Her jewelry box must look like a junk drawer.

It was a good weekend. Five thousand words of Carry On. Fish tacos with radish and shredded cabbage. Only two more conversations about Wren. And Sunday afternoon brought Levi back, taking her front steps two at a time.

Reyna put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Coach, we’ll get you to your wife, but let’s do it right. Tyson, how did you and Ella get out to this ship?’ ‘Rainbow!’ ‘You … took a rainbow?’ ‘He is my fish pony friend.’ ‘A hippocampus,’ Nico advised.

Physics says: go to sleep. Of course you’re tired. Every atom in you has been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes nonstop from mitosis to now. Quit tapping your feet. They’ll dance inside themselves without you. Go to sleep. Geology says: it will be all right. Slow inch by inch America is giving itself to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch. You aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be one body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep. Astronomy says: the sun will rise tomorrow, Zoology says: on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle, Psychology says: but first it has to be night, so Biology says: the body-clocks are stopped all over town and History says: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.

I went about the job in a direct way. I took the hatchet in both my hands and vigorously beat the fish on the head with the hammerhead (I still didn’t have the stomach to use the sharp edge). The dorado did the most extraordinary thing as it died: it began to flash all kinds of colours in rapid succession. Blue, green, red, gold, and violet flickered and shimmered neon-like on its surface as it struggled. I felt I was beating a rainbow to death.

The morning sun reflected in the skyscrapers that circled us and a rainbow-patterned kite flashed above, glittering like fish scales.

No free man needs a God; but was I free? How fully I felt nature glued to me And how my childish palate loved the taste Half-fish, half-honey, of that golden paste! My picture book was at an early age The painted parchment papering our cage: Mauve rings around the moon; blood-orange sun; Twinned Iris; and that rare phenomenon The iridule - when, beautiful and strange, In a bright sky above a mountain range One opal cloudlet in an oval form Reflects the rainbow of a thunderstorm Which in a distant valley has been staged - For we are most artistically caged.

A Faint Music by Robert Hass Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, and the heroine has studied her face and its defects remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves has lost its novelty and not released them, and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, watching the others go about their days— likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming, and understood, therefore, why they had been, all their lives, in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. As in the story a friend told once about the time he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up on the girder like a child—the sun was going down and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing carefully, and drove home to an empty house. There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick with rage and grief. He knew more or less where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. “You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” “Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, “I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, and go to sleep. And he, he would play that scene once only, once and a half, and tell himself that he was going to carry it for a very long time and that there was nothing he could do but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark cracking and curling as the cold came up. It’s not the story though, not the friend leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” which is the part of stories one never quite believes. I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing

As we drew nearer we could see that the three men fishing seemed old and solemn-looking men. They sat on three chairs in the punt and watched intently their lines. And the red sunset threw a mystic light upon the waters and tinged with fire the towering woods and made a golden glory of the piled-up clouds. It was an hour of deep enchantment of ecstatic hope and longing. The little sail stood out against the purple sky the gloaming lay around us wrapping the world in rainbow shadows and behind us crept the night. We seemed like knights of some old legend sailing across some mystic lake into the unknown realm of twilight unto the great land of the sunset. We did not go into the realm of twilight we went slap into that punt where those three old men were fishing. We did not know what had happened at first because the sail shut out the view but from the nature of the language that rose up upon the evening air we gathered that we had come into the neighbourhood of human beings and that they were vexed and discontented.

Where there are no bees there is no honey. Where there are no flowers there is no perfume. Where there are no clouds there is no rain. Where there are no stars there is no light. Where there are no roses there are no thorns. Where there are no skies there are no stars. Where there are no storms there are no rainbows. Where there are no animals there are no forests. Where there are no plants there are no jungles. Where there are no seeds there are no harvests. Where there are no spiders there are no webs. Where there are no ants there are no colonies. Where there are no worms there are no fish. Where there are no mice there are no serpents. Where there are no carcasses there are no vultures. Where there are no stones there are no pebbles. Where there are no rocks there are no mountains. Where there are no deserts there are no oases. Where there are no stars there are no galaxies. Where there are no worlds there are no universes.

The fish was a twelve-inch rainbow trout with a huge hump on its back. A hunchback trout.

Mya Rose, Mya Dear Do you hear me call your name Do you see when it rains and when the rainbows glow Do you smile Do you laugh when Grandpa steals your nose Close your eyes Mya Dear and say your little prayer When you wake by the lake we'll do some fishing there. And when you catch, the biggest fish, then we'll let 'em go Do you see when it rains and when the rainbows glow Do you smile Do you laugh When Grandpa steals your nose Do you hear Mya Dear when I call your name

Berries and beans R: Rainbow colors of fruits and vegetables A: Antioxidants I: Include lean proteins and plant-based proteins N: Nuts (almonds, walnuts, Brazil nuts, and cashews) F: Fiber-rich foods, fish, and fermented foods O: Oils O: Omega-3-rich foods D: Dairy (yogurt and kefir, certain cheeses)

It is dirt that propels a flower to blossom, heat that propels a candle to burn, storms that propel a rainbow to form, pressure that propels a diamond to glow, wind that propels a bird to soar, tides that propel a fish to swim, waves that propel a ship to float, darkness that propels a star to shine, and hunger that propels a lion to roar. It is pain that gives pleasure meaning, sorrow that gives joy meaning, despair that gives hope meaning, fear that gives courage meaning, turmoil that gives peace meaning, anger that gives love meaning, chaos that gives order meaning, evil that gives good meaning, and darkness that gives light meaning.

Yay!” said Tyson. “Can you also do a picture of Rainbow? He’s my friend! He’s a fish pony!” “A rainbow is white light,” Ella said. “Refracted through water droplets.” “Also a fish pony!” Tyson said. “Hmph,” said Ella. I got the feeling I had just witnessed the closest the harpy and Cyclops ever came to having an argument.

If you try to sell rivers to oceans, they will mock you; fish to seas, they will belittle you; rocks to mountains, they will taunt you; clouds to skies, they will deride you; color to rainbows, they will revile you; stars to galaxies, they will chide you; wind to storms, they will denounce you; sand to deserts, they will ridicule you; speed to cheetahs, they will criticize you; venom to serpents, they will disparage you; beauty to stars, they will discredit you; pearls to oysters, they will berate you; trees to forests, they will spite you; birds to skies, they will disdain you; music to birds, they will dismiss you; wool to sheep, they will detest you; silk to spiders, they will defame you; seasons to nature, they will despise you; honey to bees, they will laugh at you; perfume to flowers, they will chuckle at you; fruit to trees, they will jeer at you; rain to clouds, they will scoff at you; fear to wolves, they will howl at you; and terror to lions, they will roar at you.

A paradisiacal lagoon lay below them. The water was an unbelievable, unreal turquoise, its surface so still that every feature of the bottom could be admired in magnified detail: colorful pebbles, bright red kelp, fish as pretty and colorful as the jungle birds. A waterfall on the far side fell softly from a height of at least twenty feet. A triple rainbow graced its frothy bottom. Large boulders stuck out of the water at seemingly random intervals, black and sun-warmed and extremely inviting, like they had been placed there on purpose by some ancient giant. And on these were the mermaids. Wendy gasped at their beauty. Their tails were all colors of the rainbow, somehow managing not to look tawdry or clownish. Deep royal blue, glittery emerald green, coral red, anemone purple. Slick and wet and as beautifully real as the salmon Wendy's father had once caught on holiday in Scotland. Shining and voluptuously alive. The mermaids were rather scandalously naked except for a few who wore carefully placed shells and starfish, although their hair did afford some measure of decorum as it trailed down their torsos. Their locks were long and thick and sinuous and mostly the same shades as their tails. Some had very tightly coiled curls, some had braids. Some had decorated their tresses with limpets and bright hibiscus flowers. Their "human" skins were familiar tones: dark brown to pale white, pink and beige and golden and everything in between. Their eyes were also familiar eye colors but strangely clear and flat. Either depthless or extremely shallow depending on how one stared. They sang, they brushed their hair, they played in the water. In short, they did everything mythical and magical mermaids were supposed to do, laughing and splashing as they did. "Oh!" Wendy whispered. "They're-" And then she stopped. Tinker Bell was giving her a funny look. An unhappy funny look. The mermaids were beautiful. Indescribably, perfectly beautiful. They glowed and were radiant and seemed to suck up every ray of sun and sparkle of water; Wendy found she had no interest looking anywhere else.

The fish market is a fresh adventure every day, varying according to the previous night’s catch. Every evening, at dusk, the lights of the sardine boats dip and shine out at sea like floating stars. In the morning, counters are piled with silvery sardines, strewn with a few odd crabs and shells. Strange fish of all shapes and sizes lie side by side, speckled or striated, with a rainbow sheen on their fins. There are small fish with black streaks on shimmering pale blue scales, fish glinting pink and red, and a Moray eel with wicked black eyes

I caught a tremendous fish and held him beside the boat half out of water, with my hook fast in a corner of his mouth. He didn't fight. He hadn't fought at all. He hung a grunting weight, battered and venerable and homely. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper, and its pattern of darker brown was like wallpaper: shapes like full-blown roses stained and lost through age. He was speckled with barnacles, fine rosettes of lime, and infested with tiny white sea-lice, and underneath two or three rags of green weed hung down. While his gills were breathing in the terrible oxygen —the frightening gills, fresh and crisp with blood, that can cut so badly— I thought of the coarse white flesh packed in like feathers, the big bones and the little bones, the dramatic reds and blacks of his shiny entrails, and the pink swim-bladder like a big peony. I looked into his eyes which were far larger than mine but shallower, and yellowed, the irises backed and packed with tarnished tinfoil seen through the lenses of old scratched isinglass. They shifted a little, but not to return my stare. —It was more like the tipping of an object toward the light. I admired his sullen face, the mechanism of his jaw, and then I saw that from his lower lip —if you could call it a lip— grim, wet, and weaponlike, hung five old pieces of fish-line, or four and a wire leader with the swivel still attached, with all their five big hooks grown firmly in his mouth. A green line, frayed at the end where he broke it, two heavier lines, and a fine black thread still crimped from the strain and snap when it broke and he got away. Like medals with their ribbons frayed and wavering, a five-haired beard of wisdom trailing from his aching jaw. I stared and stared and victory filled up the little rented boat, from the pool of bilge where oil had spread a rainbow around the rusted engine to the bailer rusted orange, the sun-cracked thwarts, the oarlocks on their strings, the gunnels—until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.

The Drunken Fisherman" Wallowing in this bloody sty, I cast for fish that pleased my eye (Truly Jehovah's bow suspends No pots of gold to weight its ends); Only the blood-mouthed rainbow trout Rose to my bait. They flopped about My canvas creel until the moth Corrupted its unstable cloth. A calendar to tell the day; A handkerchief to wave away The gnats; a couch unstuffed with storm Pouching a bottle in one arm; A whiskey bottle full of worms; And bedroom slacks: are these fit terms To mete the worm whose molten rage Boils in the belly of old age? Once fishing was a rabbit's foot-- O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot, Let suns stay in or suns step out: Life danced a jig on the sperm-whale's spout-- The fisher's fluent and obscene Catches kept his conscience clean. Children, the raging memory drools Over the glory of past pools. Now the hot river, ebbing, hauls Its bloody waters into holes; A grain of sand inside my shoe Mimics the moon that might undo Man and Creation too; remorse, Stinking, has puddled up its source; Here tantrums thrash to a whale's rage. This is the pot-hole of old age. Is there no way to cast my hook Out of this dynamited brook? The Fisher's sons must cast about When shallow waters peter out. I will catch Christ with a greased worm, And when the Prince of Darkness stalks My bloodstream to its Stygian term . . . On water the Man-Fisher walks.

take tuna. Among the other 145 species regularly killed — gratuitously — while killing tuna are: manta ray, devil ray, spotted skate, bignose shark, copper shark, Galapagos shark, sandbar shark, night shark, sand tiger shark, (great) white shark, hammerhead shark, spurdog fish, Cuban dogfish, bigeye thresher, mako, blue shark, wahoo, sailfish, bonito, king mackerel, Spanish mackerel, longbill spearfish, white marlin, swordfish, lancet fish, grey triggerfish, needlefish, pomfret, blue runner, black ruff, dolphin fish, bigeye cigarfish, porcupine fish, rainbow runner, anchovy, grouper, flying fish, cod, common sea horse, Bermuda chub, opah, escolar, leerfish, tripletail, goosefish, monkfish, sunfish, Murray eel, pilotfish, black gemfish, stone bass, bluefish, cassava fish, red drum, greater amberjack, yellowtail, common sea bream, barracuda, puffer fish, loggerhead turtle, green turtle, leatherback turtle, hawksbill turtle, Kemp’s ridley turtle, Atlantic yellow-nosed albatross, Audouin’s gull, balearic shearwater, black-browed albatross, great black-backed gull, great shearwater, great-winged petrel, grey petrel, herring gull, laughing gull, northern royal albatross, shy albatross, sooty shearwater, southern fulmar, Yelkouan shearwater, yellow-legged gull, minke whale, sei whale, fin whale, common dolphin, northern right whale, pilot whale, humpback whale, beaked whale, killer whale, harbor porpoise, sperm whale, striped dolphin, Atlantic spotted dolphin, spinner dolphin, bottlenose dolphin, and goose-beaked whale. Imagine being served a plate of sushi. But this plate also holds all of the animals that were killed for your serving of sushi. The plate might have to be five feet across.

And everywhere, just as there were animals on land, were the animals of the sea. The tiniest fish made the largest schools- herring, anchovies, and baby mackerel sparkling and cavorting in the light like a million diamonds. They twirled into whirlpools and flowed over the sandy floor like one large, unlikely animal. Slightly larger fish came in a rainbow, red and yellow and blue and orange and purple and green and particolored like clowns: dragonets and blennies and gobies and combers. Hake, shad, char, whiting, cod, flounder, and mullet made the solid middle class. The biggest loners, groupers and oarfish and dogfish and the major sharks and tuna that all grew to a large, ripe old age did so because they had figured out how to avoid human boats, nets, lines, and bait. The black-eyed predators were well aware they were top of the food chain only down deep, and somewhere beyond the surface there were things even more hungry and frightening than they. Rounding out the population were the famous un-fish of the ocean: the octopus, flexing and swirling the ends of her tentacles; delicate jellyfish like fairies; lobsters and sea stars; urchins and nudibranchs... the funny, caterpillar-like creatures that flowed over the ocean floor wearing all kinds of colors and appendages. All of these creatures woke, slept, played, swam about, and lived their whole lives under the sea, unconcerned with what went on above them. But there were other animals in this land, strange ones, who spoke both sky and sea. Seals and dolphins and turtles and the rare fin whale would come down to hunt or talk for a bit and then vanish to that strange membrane that separated the ocean from everything else. Of course they were loved- but perhaps not quite entirely trusted.

You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you’d be so much older or anything. It wouldn’t be that, exactly. You’d just be different, that’s all. You’d have an overcoat on this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you’d have a new partner. Or you’d have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you’d heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you’d just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you’d be different in some way—I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.

Men as Friends" I have a few which is news to me Tom drops by in the mornings with his travel mug my mother would call it a coffee klatch we review our terrible histories with fathers and talk about the father he’s become and how much it will cost to replace gutters the ice brought down and then there’s soft-spoken Harvey with whom I enjoy long pauses in conversation about how they raised the Nelson town hall and put a foundation underneath during which we both look at Mt. Monadnock and then down at the ground and then back at each other silence precipitating the pretty weather we share before he goes inside for lunch when I had to pack up my office Tom boxed and loaded books into my car I didn’t think he’d want to but his idea of friendship includes carrying heavy things at the dog park the retired Marine with the schnauzer asked do you have a husband I replied I don’t care for men in that way as a Marine James mostly played cards on a supply ship now he mostly hunts and fishes climbs his orchard ladder for my Cortlands and in trout season leaves, in my fridge, two rainbows

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way — I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket. Nobody’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you’d be so much older or anything. It wouldn’t be that, exactly. You’d just be different, that’s all. You’d have an overcoat this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you’d have a new partner. Or you’d have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you’d heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you’d just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you’d be different in some way — I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.

But whether I’m on deck or below it, I’ll never be far.” “Shall I take that as a promise? Or a threat?” She sauntered toward him, hands cocked on her hips in an attitude of provocation. His eyes swept her body, washing her with angry heat. She noted the subtle tensing of his shoulders, the frayed edge of his breath. Even exhausted and hurt, he still wanted her. For a moment, Sophia felt hope flicker to life inside her. Enough for them both. And then, with the work of an instant, he quashed it all. Gray stepped back. He gave a loose shrug and a lazy half-smile. If I don’t care about you, his look said, you can’t possibly hurt me. “Take it however you wish.” “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t you try that move with me.” With trembling fingers, she began unbuttoning her gown. “What the devil are you doing? You think you can just hike up your shift and make-“ “Don’t get excited.” She stripped the bodice down her arms, then set to work unlacing her stays. “I’m merely settling a score. I can’t stand to be in your debt a moment longer.” Soon she was down to her chemise and plucking coins from the purse tucked between her breasts. One, two, three, four, five… “There,” she said, casing the sovereigns on the table. “Six pounds, and”-she fished out a crown-“ten shillings. You owe me the two.” He held up open palms. “Well, I’m afraid I have no coin on me. You’ll have to trust me for it.” “I wouldn’t trust you for anything. Not even two shillings.” He glared at her a moment, then turned on his heel and exited the cabin, banging the door shut behind him. Sophia stared at it, wondering whether she dared stomp after him with her bodice hanging loose around her hips. Before she could act on the obvious affirmative, he stormed back in. “Here.” A pair of coins clattered to the table. “Two shillings. And”-he drew his other hand from behind his back-“your two leaves of paper. I don’t want to be in your debt, either.” The ivory sheets fluttered as he released them. One drifted to the floor. Sophia tugged a banknote from her bosom and threw it on the growing pile. To her annoyance, it made no noise and had correspondingly little dramatic value. In compensation, she raised her voice. “Buy yourself some new boots. Damn you.” “While we’re settling scores, you owe me twenty-odd nights of undisturbed sleep.” “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re even on that regard.” She paused, glaring a hole in his forehead, debating just how hateful she would make this. Very. “You took my innocence,” she said coldly-and completely unfairly, because they both knew she’d given it freely enough. “Yes, and I’d like my jaded sensibilities restored, but there’s no use wishing after rainbows, now is there?” He had a point there. “I suppose we’re squared away then.” “I suppose we are.” “There’s nothing else I owe you?” His eyes were ice. “Not a thing.” But there is, she wanted to shout. I still owe you the truth, if only you’d care enough to ask for it. If only you cared enough for me, to want to know. But he didn’t. He reached for the door. “Wait,” he said. “There is one last thing.” Sophia’s heart pounded as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a scrap of white fabric. “There,” he said, unceremoniously casting it atop the pile of coins and notes and paper. “I’m bloody tired of carrying that around.” And then he was gone, leaving Sophia to wrap her arms over her half-naked chest and stare numbly at what he’d discarded. A lace-trimmed handkerchief, embroidered with a neat S.H.

Twenty, thirty, forty feet. The pressure wasn’t uncomfortable. I’d never tried to push it—to see if there was a limit to how deep I could dive. I knew most regular humans couldn’t go past two hundred feet without crumpling like an aluminum can. I should’ve been blind, too, this deep in the water at night, but I could see the heat from living forms, and the cold of the currents. It’s hard to describe. It wasn’t like regular seeing, but I could tell where everything was. As I got closer to the bottom, I saw three hippocampi—fish-tailed horses—swimming in a circle around an overturned boat. The hippocampi were beautiful to watch. Their fish tails shimmered in rainbow colors, glowing phosphorescent. Their manes were white, and they were galloping through the water the way nervous horses do in a thunderstorm. Something was upsetting them. I got closer and saw the problem. A dark shape—some kind of animal—was wedged halfway under the boat and tangled in a fishing net, one of those big nets they use on trawlers to catch everything at once. I hated those things. It was bad enough they drowned porpoises and dolphins, but they also occasionally caught mythological animals. When the nets got tangled, some lazy fishermen would just cut them loose and let the trapped animals die. Apparently this poor creature had been mucking around on the bottom of Long Island Sound and had somehow gotten itself tangled in the net of this sunken fishing boat. It had tried to get out and managed to get even more hopelessly stuck, shifting the boat in the process. Now the wreckage of the hull, which was resting against a big rock, was teetering and threatening to collapse on top of the tangled animal. The hippocampi were swimming around frantically, wanting to help but not sure how. One was trying to chew the net, but hippocampi teeth just aren’t meant for cutting rope. Hippocampi are really strong, but they don’t have hands, and they’re not (shhh) all that smart. Free

Eleanor looked like her mother through a fish tank. Rounder and softer. Slurred. Where her mother was statuesque, Eleanor was heavy. Where her mother was finely drawn, Eleanor was smudged.

Walter also became a hotelier, western style. A brochure touted “Walter Brennan’s Indian Lodge Motel. The Motel of Distinction. Enjoy Your Vacation In The Switzerland of America. Fishing—Hunting—Swimming—Water Sports—Rainbow Theater—Horse Back Riding, Joseph, Oregon.

5 × 5 × 5 Daily Worksheet—Preferred Foods List Choose one item from each defense category to eat each day. Defense: Angiogenesis Antiangiogenic Almonds Anchovies Apple peel Apples (Granny Smith, Red Delicious, Reinette) Apricot Arctic char Arugula Bamboo shoots Barley Beer Belgian endive Bigeye tuna Black bass Black beans Black plums Black raspberries Black tea Blackberries Blueberries Blueberries (dried) Bluefin tuna Bluefish Bok choy Bottarga Broccoli Broccoli rabe Cabbage Camembert cheese Capers Carrots Cashews Cauliflower Caviar (sturgeon) Chamomile tea Cherries Cherries (dried) Cherry tomatoes Chestnuts Chia seeds Chicken (dark meat) Chile peppers Cinnamon Cloudy apple cider Cockles (clam) Coffee Cranberries Cranberries (dried) Dark chocolate Eastern oysters Edam cheese Eggplant Emmenthal cheese Escarole Fiddleheads Fish roe (salmon) Flax seeds Frisee Ginseng Gouda cheese Gray mullet Green tea Guava Hake Halibut Jamón iberico de bellota Jarlsberg cheese Jasmine green tea John Dory (fish) Kale Kimchi Kiwifruit Licorice root Lychee Macadamia nuts Mackerel Mangoes Manila clams Mediterranean sea bass Muenster cheese Navy beans Nectarine Olive oil (EVOO) Onions Oolong tea Oregano Pacific oysters Peaches Pecans Peppermint Pine nuts Pink grapefruit Pistachios Plums Pomegranates Pompano Proscuitto di Parma Pumpkin seeds Puntarelle Radicchio Rainbow trout Raspberries Red black-skin tomatoes Redfish Red-leaf lettuce Red mullet Red wine (Cabernet, Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot) Romanesco Rosemary Rutabaga Salmon San Marzano tomatoes Sardine Sauerkraut Sea bream Sea cucumber Sencha green tea Sesame seeds Soy Spiny lobster Squash blossoms Squid ink Stilton cheese Strawberries Sultana raisins Sunflower seeds Swordfish Tangerine tomatoes Tardivo di Treviso Tieguanyin green tea Tuna Turmeric Turnips Walnuts Watermelon Yellowtail (fish)

Defense: Regeneration Anchovies Apple peel Apples (Granny Smith, Red Delicious, Reinette) Apricots Arctic char Bamboo shoots Barley Beer Belgian endive Bigeye tuna Bitter melon Black bass Black chokeberry Black plums Black raspberries Black tea Blackberries Blueberries Blueberries (dried) Bluefin tuna Bluefish Bottarga Capers Carrots Caviar (sturgeon) Celery Chamomile tea Cherries Cherries (dried) Chestnuts Chia seeds Chile peppers Chinese celery Cockles (clam) Coffee Collard greens Concord grape juice Cranberries Cranberries (dried) Dark chocolate Eastern oysters Eggplant Escarole Fiddleheads Fish roe (salmon) Flax seeds Frisee Ginseng Goji berries Grapes Gray mullet Green beans Green tea Hake Halibut John Dory (fish) Kale Kiwifruit Lychee Mackerel Mangoes Manila clams Mediterranean sea bass Mustard greens Nectarines Olive oil (EVOO) Onions Oregano Pacific oysters Peaches Peanuts Peppermint Persimmon Pistachios Plums Pomegranates Pompano (fish) Pumpkin seeds Puntarelle Purple potatoes Radicchio Rainbow trout Raspberries Razor clams Red-leaf lettuce Red mullet Red wine (Cabernet, Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot) Redfish Rice bran Rosemary Saffron Salmon Sardine Sea bass Sea bream Sea cucumber Sesame seeds Soy Spinach Spiny lobster Squash blossoms Squid ink Strawberries Sultana raisins Sunflower seeds Swiss chard Swordfish Tardivo di Treviso Thyme Truffles Tuna Turmeric Walnuts Wasabi Watercress Whole grains Yellowtail (fish)

Defense: DNA Protection Acerola Almond butter Almonds Anchovies Apricots Arctic char Arugula Bamboo shoots Basil Bigeye tuna Black bass Black tea Blueberries Bluefin tuna Bluefish Bok choy Bottarga Brazil nuts Broccoli Broccoli rabe Broccoli sprouts Cabbage Camu camu Carrots Cashew butter Cashews Cauliflower Caviar (sturgeon) Chamomile tea Cherries Cherry tomatoes Chestnuts Cockles (clam) Coffee Concord grape juice Dark chocolate Eastern oysters Eggplant Fiddleheads Fish roe (salmon) Flax seeds Grapefruit Gray mullet Green tea Guava Hake Halibut Hazelnuts John Dory (fish) Kale Kiwifruit Lychee Macadamia nuts Mackerel Mangoes Manila clams Marjoram Mediterranean sea bass Mixed berry juice Nectarines Olive oil (EVOO) Oolong tea Orange juice Oranges Oyster sauce Pacific oysters Papaya Peaches Peanut butter Peanuts Pecans Peppermint Pine nuts Pink grapefruit Pistachios Plums Pompano Pumpkin seeds Rainbow trout Red black-skin tomatoes Red mullet Redfish Romanesco Rosemary Rutabaga Sage Salmon San Marzano tomato Sardine Sea bass Sea bream Sea cucumber Sesame seeds Soy Spiny lobster Squash blossoms Squash seeds Squid ink Strawberries Sunflower seeds Swordfish Tahini Tangerine tomatoes Thyme Truffles Tuna Turmeric Turnips Walnuts Watermelon Yellowtail (fish)

about Minnesota he tells me all about it—how it became a state just over seventy years ago and is now the twelfth largest in the United States. How its name comes from a Dakota Indian word for “cloudy water.” How it contains thousands of lakes, filled with fish of all kinds—walleye, for one thing, catfish, largemouth bass, rainbow trout, perch, and pike. The Mississippi River starts in Minnesota, did I know that?

Remind me of the place. The wind breathing through the trees and the sound of coconuts dropping on the mud. Ta-dup ta dup. The hairy mangrove crabs and the turtles. The evening sky looking like a big mash up rainbow with all these colors leaking down on the sea. The fresh smell of fish and sand in the mornings. Cascadura jumping up from the ponds like living clumps of mud. Dew skating down from the big dasheen leaves as if they playing with the sunlight. A horsewhip snake slipping down a guava branch as smooth as flowing water. Cassava pone and seamoss drinks.

Fishmonger I have taken scales from off The cheeks of the moon. I have made fins from bluejays’ wings, I have made eyes from damsons in the shadow. I have taken flushes from the peachlips in the sun. From all these I have made a fish of heaven for you, Set it swimming on a young October sky. I sit on the bank of the stream and watch The grasses in amazement As they turn to ashy gold. Are the fishes from the rainbow Still beautiful to you, For whom they are made, For whom I have set them, Swimming?

For the more adventurous fisherman, Yellowstone offers waters far from well-traveled roads. It takes more time to reach these waters, and the best fishing is later in the day due to higher elevations. But the extra effort pays off with bigger rewards. Fall River Basin boasts some of the best fly-fishing waters anywhere, let alone the Park. It’s only 75 miles from Idaho Falls, yet fly-fishers bypass it to take part in crowd-forming events on the Henry’s Fork and Madison River to the north and the South Fork to the south. Yes, a four-mile walk is required to access Bechler River and Boundary Creek in the meadows. A 2 to 3 mile walk reaches Fall River, Mountain Ash Creek and Beula and Hering Lakes. Each stream hosts large cutthroat-rainbow hybrid trout, which can rival those of the Henry’s Fork and the Madison River in size and pickiness.

I wonder if maybe Farfar's heaven would be steering his own kart, inside the game, his gray ponytail slowly flapping in the lessened gravity of Rainbow Road, cackling as a smiling puff-cloud fishes him out of the abyss after he goes sailing over the guardrails. I'd wave as I pass, careful as always, decelerating my standard kart around the sharp turns, just waiting for him to come barreling past me yet again.

A high intake of omega-3 fatty acids has also been linked with improved semen quality and reproductive hormone levels in men,III as well as a reduced risk of ovulatory problems and improved fertility in women. The potential hitch is that some sources of fish and seafood are high in mercury, which is a concern for the fetus’s developing brain in utero. To avoid mercury in seafood, put king mackerel, marlin, orange roughy, shark, swordfish, and tilefish on your no-buy list; stick with wild salmon, sardines, mussels, rainbow trout, and Atlantic mackerel.IV

I'd been drawn to an orange Siamese fighter fish with fins that moved like a graceful flamenco dancer, and I'd wanted one for the big tank in the restaurant until Charles explained that he (or she) would kill all the other fishes we'd picked out---tropical delights in all the colors of the rainbow, some spotted like leopards, all being delivered to the restaurant tomorrow morning. I tap on the glass. "I'm going to name you Frushi. French sushi. Don't worry, nobody is going to eat you. The sea bass, on the other hand, that's another story." Frushi shows off, wiggling his featherlike tail and fins, which look like they're made of inky silk, as he swims through the tiny castle and live plants I'd purchased for his new home.

Pariva was a small village, unimportant enough that it rarely appeared on any maps of Esperia. Bordered by mountains and sea, it seemed untouched by time. The school looked the same as she remembered; so did the market and Mangia Road---a block of eating establishments that included the locally famous Belmagio bakery---and cypress and laurel and pine trees still surrounded the local square, where the villagers came out to gossip or play chess or even sing together. Had it really been forty years since she had returned? It seemed like only yesterday that she'd strolled down Pariva's narrow streets, carrying a sack of pine nuts to her parents' bakery or stopping by the docks to watch the fishing boats sail across the glittering sea. Back then, she'd been a daughter, a sister, a friend. A mere slip of a young woman. Home had been a humble two-storied house on Constanza Street, with a door as yellow as daffodils and cobblestoned stairs that led into a small courtyard in the back. Her father had kept a garden of herbs; he was always frustrated by how the mint grew wild when what he truly wanted to grow was basil. The herbs went into the bread that her parents sold at their bakery. Papa crafted the savory loaves and Mamma the sweet ones, along with almond cakes drizzled with lemon glaze, chocolate biscuits with hazelnut pralines, and her famous cinnamon cookies. The magic the Blue Fairy had grown up with was sugar shimmering on her fingertips and flour dusting her hair like snow. It was her older brother, Niccolo, coaxing their finicky oven into working again, and Mamma listening for the crackle of a golden-brown crust just before her bread sang. It was her little sister Ilaria's tongue turning green after she ate too many pistachio cakes. Most of all, magic was the smile on Mamma's, Papa's, Niccolo's, and Ilaria's faces when they brought home the bakery's leftover chocolate cake and sank their forks into a sumptuous, moist slice. After dinner, the Blue Fairy and her siblings made music together in the Blue Room. Its walls were bluer than the midsummer sky, and the windows arched like rainbows. It'd been her favorite room in the house.

Follow your rainbow, The sun is a pot of gold, and the elusive worm hatch is sometimes an attainable goal.

As he lights up, the sun is setting, turning the sky as many pastels as you see on the side of a rainbow trout. The reddest clouds are the fish cut open. Aspen trees are peaking with yellow. A wind comes up the draw, announced in advance by clapping aspen leaves, and then he can hear it take the pines around the house and he feels it on his cheek and it makes the end of his cigarette glow brighter. He takes a deep drag and looks down past the springhouse nested in orange willow branches. Up over the opposing hill he sees the snow on mountains west of Laramie. Another breath of wind comes up and starts the aspens chattering like nervous girls, and they catch the last low-angling rays of sun and flare. The dark tops of evergreens are red, almost bloody, and for a good thirty seconds he knows that the world is something altogether other than what it appears to be.

A few days were snatched early in March by Edwin Montagu Venetia, Duff, Patrick and me for a fishing spree to a primitive inn on the River Beauly.

like ice cream after a shit pizza. Like a perfect chord after a middle-school band. Like sunshine and rainbows and birds and butterflies after a hurricane.

Mediocrity. I tell all my kittens as I pummel their tiny heads with my sandpaper tongue that smells like an eclectic medley of fish. They hear of scratching posts and leather furniture and catnip and Science Diet and the extraordinary pleasure of yarfing on a Persian rug and the magical kkkkkkrrrkkk of a can opening. Because we tell our blue-eyed kittens what to fear and what to love, what is a warm sun spot and what is sinister and menacing, like cucumbers. We must remember the Mediocre Servants when they were less rotten. Dee stroked my head and allowed me to chew on her arm. I claimed her by rubbing my face on her finger. This is a binding contract of ownership, throughout the universe, in perpetuity. I feel change coming in the way the wind whips against my whiskers. I see playful patterns in the rainbow light. I will Dee to live on, the last, the one with eyes that see everything like Genghis. And frankly, one day Dee will be all grown up and able to make cheese. Really, it’s all about the fucking cheese. Mediocre Servants have never been perfect, but they were once a damn sight better and I’m god enough to admit it—I miss them. So now I’m here and I’m not afraid of what’s next. Oh, and I brought some fucking backup with me.

It’s like one big lending library out there. A piece of what was once a star or something, a flower or a willow tree, when it is finished bein’ that might be loaned away an’ become a fish or a person’s fingernail or evaporate into the sky and be a rainbow. That the—what did he call ’em?—stuff that makes your atoms up an’ mine, that stuff mixed up a little different is the sum of all the stuff that’s in existence.

Rainbow trout live in the fastest currents, cutthroat trout in quiet eddies behind snags, brook trout in the pools at the inner bends of streams.

Cutthroat trout display behavior more like brook trout than their rainbow trout cousins. They are most often found in quiet current tongues along undercut banks, under rock ledges and deadfalls, and in slow, deep pools. The cutthroat is often easily fooled, and its curiosity about big, bushy flies with bright colors and tinsel is legendary. They like to chase their prey and are suckers for large, rubber-legged dry flies slapped on the water and twitched.

She thought about the old woman’s words as a smile broke out on her pale white face. She played with a lock of her fiery red hair, and her slender eyes, shaped like the body of the graceful dyran, the rainbow-scaled, ribbon-tailed flying fish, stared into the distance. There was something about this young man who tried to do good without seeming to be too good. She wanted to know him better.

The real game, as I soon discover, is donburi. Donburi, often shortened to don, means "bowl," and the name encapsulates a vast array of rice bowls topped with delicious stuff: oyakodon (chicken and egg), unadon (grilled eel), tendon (tempura). As nice as meat and tempura and eel can be, the donburi of yours and mine and every sensible person's dreams is topped with a rainbow bounty of raw fish. Warm rice, cool fish, a dab of wasabi, a splash of soy- sushi, without the pageantry and without the price tag. At Kikuyo Shokudo Honten you will find more than three dozen varieties of seafood dons, including a kaleidoscopic combination of uni, salmon, ikura (salmon roe), quail eggs, and avocado. I opt for what I've come to call the Hokkaido Superhero's Special: scallops, salmon roe, hairy crab, and uni. It's ridiculous hyperbole to call a simple plate of food life changing, but as the tiny briny eggs pop and the sweet scallops dissolve and the uni melts like ocean Velveeta, I feel some tectonic shift taking place just below my surface.

Like the rainbow in clouds and the rain drop in mud You irked like a torn of love in my heart. My naught desire is burning, as my beautiful hope is unfulfilled. Is it to raise the madness of love in me or to kill me? You are the girl I wished for, the damsel that left me, you are a merciless demon and the craze in my heart. You are a fish eyed beauty and a surprising sage, you are my moonlight in the dark... Come to me my beloved!! How do I live without you? Come to me my beloved! Can’t you be seen to my eyes? I am living in your thoughts this way... I considered you my heartbeat, how do I live without you? Come to me my beloved! My dear girl, oh beauty bird.. my heart slipped down magically and started roaming around you chanting your name in your quest, dancing just like you to reach me. How many days or years it might be, I would be waiting to see you even if it takes a hundred years. Let there be any dangers or whirlpools ahead, oh my love.. I will be beside you in everything. Shall we exist as one together? This is a never-ending celebration. Oh my gosh, my gorgeous babe.. You are a sweet unforgettable thought. Glimpses of your twittering laugh and the gleam of your eyes can be seen tempting deep in my heart. Wherever I am and whatever I do. I keep seeing the love of billions of my dreams. Shall I place you deep inside my carved heard and workshop you with the flowers of my blood? Shall we pull the time backwards and write our story again? How do I live without you? Come to me my beloved!

I don’t know how we can check out whether he was at Rainbow Lake,” Ashley said. “Who would we ask—the fish?

I feel kind of bad for him,” I said. “All he wants is to be left alone. I wish we could help him somehow.” I sighed. “But we do have to check out his story.” “I don’t know how we can check out whether he was at Rainbow Lake,” Ashley said. “Who would we ask--the fish?

The wind stirred his loose hair and Sorasa assessed him for the first time since her memory failed. Since the deck of the Tyri ship caught fire, and someone seized her around the middle, plunging them both into the dark waves. She did not need to guess to know who. Dom’s clothing was torn but long dry. He still wore the leather jerkin with the undershirt, but his borrowed cloak had been left to feed the sea serpents. The rest of him looked intact. He had only a few fresh cuts across the backs of his hands, like a terrible rope burn. Scales, Sorasa knew. The sea serpent coiled in her head, bigger than the mast, its scales flashing a dark rainbow. Her breath caught when she realized he wore no sword belt, nor sheath. Nor sword. “Dom,” she bit out, reaching between them. Only her instincts caught her, her hand freezing inches above his hip. His brow furrowed again, carving a line of concern. “Your sword.” The line deepened, and Sorasa understood. She mourned her own dagger, earned so many decades ago, now lost to a burning palace. She could not imagine what Dom felt for a blade centuries old. “It is done,” he finally said, fishing into his shirt. The collar pulled, showing a line of white flesh, the planes of hard muscle rippling beneath. Sorasa dropped her eyes, letting him fuss. Only when something soft touched her temple did she look up again. Her heart thumped. Dom did not meet her gaze, focused on his work, cleaning her wound with a length of cloth. It was the fabric that made her breath catch. Little more than a scrap of gray green. Thin but finely made by master hands. Embroidered with silver antlers. It was a piece of Dom’s old cloak, the last remnant of Iona. It survived a kraken, an undead army, a dragon, and the dungeons of a mad queen. But it would not survive Sorasa Sarn. She let him work, her skin aflame beneath his fingers. Until the last bits of blood were gone, and the last piece of his home tossed away. “Thank you,” she finally said to no reply.