t was a chilly December morning. A light fog tucked in around the road, cars slowly whirred by the windows, and fish were raining from the office ceiling. It started a little past 9 with a few anchovies. One slid down the back of the assistant manager's shirt, sending him leaping out of his chair and dancing about, slapping himself here and there as he tried to expel the wriggling fish. The others merely splatted onto the floor and flopped until one of the women gathered enough courage to pick them up one by one with a tissue. When all the fish had been removed, a silence settled onto the room, disturbed only by a lingering salty smell.


"I suppose they fell through the vents?" someone eventually offered. There was a general nodding of heads and murmured agreement. The office returned to work. A half hour later, it drizzled, this time assorted carp, small trout, and herring. A janitor was called, but he could find no evidence that the fish had come from the vents. 


Sarah Purow-Ruderman

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