This article about an octopus breaking free from the National Aquarium of New Zealand came across the wire long ago, and I couldn’t resist reading. I also couldn’t resist stealing the first line and quoting the last to create a whole new piece of flash fiction. Just for fun. (After all, what is writing if it isn’t fun?)
‘Didn’t even leave us a message.’
Photo credit: W. Tipton on Visual Hunt / CC BY-NC
It was an audacious nighttime escape. Inky would never have considered it had it not been for the young girl who stood at the glass for longer than he could keep his suckers from twitching. She stared at him as he slithered across the tank. He rolled back a tentacle, let it flare and pop in her direction. She was unfazed. He bared his underside. She only giggled. Then he gave her the side eye, full-force, to frighten her really. But she pressed her face closer and shocked him with her own eyes that looked like the water in the deep end of the harbor. After all these years, he had not forgotten: the endless color, the brush of soft kelp against his mantle, the current that ran warm along his dorsal. His head swam in sudden delirium.
The ocean.
He pushed back through the water and spun in a circle, repeating to himself, the ocean the ocean. He would have the ocean. And soon. He told Blotchy outright in the dark of evening as they fed on flaccid herring. And when the kid darted back and forth in panic and inked himself a mess, Inky told him to keep his claw shut about the whole business or he’d wedge his little plastic coconut shell of a house up to the glass and make his window view that of the crab cluster fucks next door. The kid inked himself again. Blotchy hated crabs.
An hour later, Inky regretted what he’d said. Blotchy was dropped into this sterile observation pit before he knew any different. He had no idea about the water that never had to be tested with bottles and drops, about the sand, soft and malleable and deep, or how herring are not supposed to sink white-eyed and loose in the water and be gnawed at–they are to be hunted. With vigor! The next morning, Inky whispered an apology to Blotchy from his corner of the aquarium. If the kid heard him, he couldn’t tell. Blotchy kept to his shell and splayed only two arms outside of it, fluttering them once in a while in a trite effort to stir up an Oooh or an Ahhh from beyond the glass.
That night, Inky hid in the corner of the aquarium near the cloth shreds of sea grass. He squinted his eye and studied the man who came after the crowds left. The man rolled a bucket in front of him and lifted what looked like a withered anemone out of its hull. He squeezed the anemone of all its juices, and Inky shuddered, wondering how much longer he would have before that would be him. Or Blotchy. A twinge of guilt pressed at the back of Inky’s head, but he shook it off. He had to focus. The man pushed what was left of the animal in tiny circles along the middle of the floor. He made tracks, clean wet tracks, that passed over a small disk and led to the door. Inky watched the man leave and then turned his eyes back to the disk. A drain. For years Inky had missed that drain, but he knew it now. And as a trickle of water slid down a winding crack in the tile and into the drain, he knew what to do.
He waited until Blotchy wedged himself into a hill of hard rocks and rested quietly. (How that kid settled into those rocks he didn’t know.) He thought to leave a note for Blotchy, rocks in a pattern that marked the way to escape. But could Blotchy even read patterns? Would he know to look beyond the glass? He opted to tuck him in a little more by shoveling a tiny crest of rocks up against Blotchy’s backside. The kid stirred. Inky whooshed away.
Filling his snout with air, he rose to the surface, the water warming as he grew closer to the red light over the aquarium. He bobbed slow and lifeless, like the squid across the dark room when it had died last week, and floated in the fake current all the way to the tiny break in the top screen. Tentacle by tentacle, his tips stinging in the fresh air, he squeezed and molded and lifted his body out of the tank. He plopped onto the floor, breathless, then dragged himself across the cold tile until he smothered the drain.
With one arm, he felt underneath him for the largest opening. He would have studied the situation longer but felt already the encroaching sense of dry along his skin. So he let himself fall inch by inch through the first opening he could detect, into the abyss, into the sound of water, pretending that he was falling straight into the ocean but rejoicing nonetheless when he splashed into a rancid stream. Sucking in hoards of sour water, he moved with force toward freedom.
His last obstacle: another disk, thicker this time but no match for his will, which doubled in strength after he peered through a small opening and saw blue blue blue on the other side. His body tingled at the thought of ocean so close, and his mind ballooned with memory, with images. The euphoria was almost too much, so he set his thoughts on the mechanics of compressing his body little by little, letting it fill just as slow as each part of him stretched into the other side. It took longer to push himself through the small space but he was driven by overwhelming anticipation and elation. And then–release.
No, it started the previous year, when I started a Twitter zine, Seven by Twenty, which ended up helping me build an audience for the publishing company I was still on the fence about starting.
People have provided proofreading and cover art for free, and have promoted our work simply out of love for literature, which allows us to keep going. I’ve tried to pay that back by starting Small Press Week, which falls on the week of American Thanksgiving (2018 will be our third year – look for #spweek18!), and a monthly #SolarpunkChat which we co-founded with Reckoning Press.
This month’s Remington Roundup includes links to my new online book study (Julia Stoops’ Parts Per Million), Red Oak Writing’s Roundtable schedule, and submission opportunities for poetry, essays, & flash fiction.
Parts Per Million (
If you’re interested in study but searching more for a writing-based opportunity, I’ll point you to Red Oak Writing. 
A Picture and a Thousand Words is an annual event that links local writers and photographers in a blind collaboration. Ten photos will be selected. Writers will choose a photo and write 1000 words inspired by it- then ten writers will be selected to read at the event, while selected photo is projected behind them.
We want flash fiction that surprises and engages us; that’s powerful and dynamic; that’s unexpected and humorous; and that dazzles us with language and emotional resonance.
Not only does every writer receive feedback from the judges for every story that is submitted, but a special review forum is available for the participants to submit their stories for review from fellow writers throughout the competition.