Isabel's Online Journal

Glints of viridian scales dance in front of my eyes, stealing my attention from my homework that sits in front of me. The twenty-litre tank sits on the left-hand side of my desk, the water filter bubbling away, low and even, conversing with the fish about my procrastination. With sparks of vermillion, the small school of tetras circle the aquatic plants, occasionally darting away from one another. One comes to tap the glass with its nose, flitting away only to come back once, twice, a third time, as if forgetting the glass is there. As the afternoon sun sets, my room is cast with a warm glow, mimicking the colour of the honey gourami that has emerged from a wooden, algae-covered log on the grey pebbled floor of the tank, coming out to bask in the light of its admirer. The tall aquatic grass hides the small snails, tucking them away from the curious brittle-nose pleco,  which forages beneath the pebbles and beside the grass, unearthing the uneaten food that rises in clouds of red, creating an underwater dust storm. My four rummy-nosed tetras race around the tank with spotted black and white tails; the same loop is made countless times, a silent procession. The sun’s glare hits the water filter, the dark corner of the tank now basking in an unforgiving light. The vivid scarlet dorsal fin of the Siamese fighting fish flares, revealing his domain. He is flawless, his blood red body hanging in the tank like a warning. The large leaves of the melon sword plant offer a shady resting spot, away from the warmth that has embodied the tank. As he moves, the tetras seem to hold their breath, slowly bending their paths to avoid confrontation; no longer is it a race around the tank. There is a silent acknowledgment from the residents; the crimson carnivore is relaxed but the hierarchy shifts subtly in his favour.