[https://imgur.com/pRu8Ajv.jpeg]

Bloo was a scared whale, a tired whale, a whale at the end of his miles and miles of wits and sanity. The alertness, the anxiety, gnawed at him like a vicious piranha school. He, like the other whales, dove down deep and slept with one eye open, continuously drifting toward the surface for an occasional, drowsy breath—but Bloo, his opened bloodshot eye, his overly alert brain, remained scanning and inspecting and worrying.

And even with his size, his natural durability, Bloo couldn't shake the feeling that he was too exposed, devastatingly immobile. As a creature large as krakens, large as the plethora of sunken ships on the ocean floor, he concluded that there was more of him to eat, way too much body to maneuver around the poisonous and spiky and predatory elements of the sea. Bloo was massive, prominent, cursed. Why, he wondered. Why this affliction? Why am I so tragically susceptible to death?

Other whales didn't share his paranoia by any means. They drifted along the currents with the confidence of moving fortresses. Bloo couldn't relate to their dangerous composure. To Bloo, their confidence was lunacy, and lunacy was one of the surest ways to perish. His friends were doomed—of this he was certain.

He watched as the others opened their mouths to inhale their abundant feed, plankton and shrimp and fish and squid of all sorts. Bloo gazed in terror as the whales ingested quills and debris and fishy toxins and worst of all, jellyfish stings. He couldn't handle watching his brethren risk themselves like this. But tremendous meals were integral to whale living, so unfortunately Bloo's immense innards squeezed and churned from hunger. Food, he needed food, and there was only one way to get it.

He closed his eyes, shutting them tightly, and proceeded with an open-mouthed swim toward a school of fish, plankton—and for all he knew quill-fishes and sting-rays and electrifying eels. Bloo's pulse quickened, his heart thumping and thumping. And there it was, the fishes entering him, hundreds of tails slapping against the roof of his mouth, his inner jaw, his throat. The rhythm of imminent death knocked against him with each painful heartbeat. Ba-boom! Ba-boom! Ba-boom! The end could happen at any moment. Now—or now. Maybe now. Now.

His blowhole tightened—and closed.

Naturally, airless and doom-struck, Bloo passed out. For the very first time, his alertness absolutely ceased. He then began to sink, the waters easing him toward the depths, drawing his carcass to the terrifying abyss below.

*

At first Bloo was horrified to awake to the sight of his own dead body, the shell of himself slowly sinking into the depths. The bloodshot eyes, the pupils wide and empty, mouth paralyzed in a gasping state. The corpse's anxiety unmistakable belonged to him and him alone. He immediately knew that the whale corpse was his and that he himself was a ghost. Bloo thought of his reckless—but required—eating, how his insides were likely singed by hundreds of jellyfish stings.

But he knew the real truth: a heart attack. Bloo had been scared to death.

And now as a soul, he watched his former vessel drift away. He focused on the eyes in particular, and recognized his milky reflection within those glazed, glassy pupils. He peered downward and noticed a new addition attached to the tail of his newly expelled soul, a thin white trail of smoky matter leading into his empty body's mouth, growing longer, and longer still, stretching continuously as Bloo's body descended.

A tether, that's what it was, a spiritual cord connecting Bloo to his discarded vessel.

He briefly considered retrieving his body. I could go back. I could be "alive" again.

And then his next thought: But why would I?

After the shock of having died, his freedom became apparent. He couldn't feel a thing, not even the steady pull of the ocean current. No pain, no danger, no tangibility to speak of. The worst was over and now he could get to the good stuff, the harmless stuff, a life—an afterlife—without fear.

He swam round and round and round. It surprised him when no whirlpool appeared—his physical influence decidedly undisturbed by the nature around him. He couldn't touch the world and the world couldn't touch-harm-bother or otherwise unnerve him.

He peered once more at his plunging body, his ever-extending tether.

"So long," he said to his body, "You took good care of me! Bon voyage!"

His watched until his body drifted out of sight, claimed by darkness. Bloo lingered within the bubbles of his last breath—which persisted for quite a while for his body was large. When the last bubble popped, Bloo swam off, relishing in the first relaxation he'd ever, ever known.

*

He returned to the whales. He hadn't been gone long, just a couple hours, and they figured he took forever to eat as usual.

"Hey guys," he said, cheerily.

"Hey Bloo," they said. They turned their heads to the side, something was off. His skin tone, his physical integrity—kind of see-through, kind of not(?)—but they didn't say anything. Whales were welcoming and polite and they'd never make you feel weird a trifle like texture, and for this Bloo was thankful.

And so typical life resumed amongst the colony with Bloo's full participation.

During feeding time Bloo confidently opened his mouth to the creatures. He placidly watched the krill and schooling fishes swim into him, through him, somehow exiting past his tail fin. All the surrounding life—sea-stars rock-clinging, anemones lounging, clams peering from their shells, and the swallowed fishes themselves—were confused, eyes wide, profoundly bothered.

When the whales slipped into their vertical slumbers, gradually floating upwards for air, Bloo remained in place, the buoyant ocean neglecting to lift his ghostly form. He no longer swam or floated or drifted with the current. Flying was more like it—so he matched his flight speed to the sleeping whales and ascended, together, as family.

The whales sung, too, vibrating the waters with their own frequencies, and Bloo sang as well-in a far different key. Bloo's words were clear—too clear—traveling without the disturbance of water. Naturally, the other whales were disturbed.

"Hiiiiii!" Bloo sang.

"What is that?" they said, horrified.

"A greeting~, a greeting~, my song is a greetiiing~!"

Bloo's appearance, eating habits, and voice were all perplexities that were rude to broach. "That greeting is...unique. That note's a bit hard to harmonize with but we'll get it."

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"Thank you~!" Bloo sang, "How are youuu~?"

"Uh, we're fine. How about you?"

"Never better~!"

Choir time had ended, off key, off harmony, off anything recognizable and comfortable to the colony.

But despite the initial unease of Bloo's family, he became a normal part of their lives again—and more pleasant, too, as it turned out. He became less annoying than the mortal Bloo, the obnoxiously fear-stricken and negative Bloo. There was less screaming, less crying and yelling and telling them that their way of life was a recipe for certain, imminent demise. The whales quickly acclimated to the new Bloo, and so their group routines continued undisturbed.

Months, years, decades—the same habits, pleasantries, and rhythm of life. Dozens of whales plus one ghost. It wasn't a secret—the cloudy tail tether was there for all to see—but acceptance was their way. And so for the next 70, 80, 90 years, the colony thrived. They remained without predators or disease, no sudden famine or injuries, no interpersonal beef, no type of oceanic chaos that the smaller creatures were subjected to. Whales, generally, were without suffering. There was but one affliction: time.

Everyone had simply begun to age, their skins becoming brownish gray, their speed tapering off into a measured, non-athletic steadiness as Bloo sped around and around them, never aging, never changing. Everything proceeded exactly the way Bloo imagined a good life should be.

And then one day, it happened. The first departure—though certainly not the last.

"Goodbye," one friend said.

"Where are you going?"

"Come on, Bloo. The depths, obviously."

Bloo jerked to attention. "But my friend, there's nothing for you there. Stay, please."

The whale let out a wise, compassionate sigh. Its whole demeanor transformed from friend-like to a grandparent. "Bloo, Bloo, Bloo," he said, "That's not how this works."

Bloo knew then that he meant death, his friend's soul finally shedding that hindrance of a body. "Just become like me. See? We're meant to be free spirits."

"Free? I suppose that's true. I suppose that also means that tether isn't tugging you too hard yet, huh?"

The tether. Bloo tried not to worry about it. He gave a nonchalant wave of his massive fin. "It's nothing at all. This is just how I'm made."

A head-nod from side to side, gentle laughter, and a final smile. "Oh Bloo, you're a good whale, the best of friends. In that case may forever be good to you. I mean it, truly. So long!" His eyelids shut and he sank into the depths, drifting downwards into the dark with grace and dignity, taking a parallel route along Bloo's smoky tether.

*

As the next few years progressed, Bloo's other friends departed. Old, tired, fulfilled—everybody sank. And Bloo stayed behind. This was one part of the journey Bloo couldn't mimic. The thought of sinking down toward his physical body, long since shed, filled him with a forgotten feeling, his lifetime of dread.

Signs of aging bothered him the most. When the whales swam off balance. When they slowed. When they had minor complaints about the cold temperature, the intensifying currents, the nautical changes that they never complained about in their younger, more resilient days. Every grievance panicked him. A cough. A shudder. Anything minor ratcheted up Bloo's anxiety—until that anxiety became fulfilled, a beloved friend passing on. Time swam onwards, casually depositing whale corpses into the shadowy, enigmatic depths.

Bloo watched his brethren go, one by one by one, quickly processing his grief and sorrow, figuring that they'd come around and decide to return as ghosts, that they'd soon lay claim to their foggy forever bodies.

But for now, Bloo was the last of his generation to remain, and he continued his days in the colony waters, living amongst his brethren's offspring. The days came and went, the months, the years. And not one ghost returned.

Only him. Bloo and his mysterious tether. A discomfort hummed through him as it had in the old days, the physical ones. The pain came straight from the depths, corkscrewing his soul. The pain told him to stop. The pain told him it was time to go. Bloo often envisioned what the depths wanted: for him to finally lay amongst anchors, shipwrecks, bottom-feeders, friends. Friends... Whenever he thought of the departed he couldn't stop. Their friendly faces, their swimming styles, their beautiful songs—everything gone became everything present. In the midst of his memories and loss, Bloo was helpless.

But while the generation he knew had passed on, their kids and kids' kids remained. It was a new family now, one that'd never known life without the presence of Bloo's ghost. They didn't know why Bloo was undead but they were never compelled to question it. They knew him. They loved him. And they even loved his odd singing, his clear above-water voice was stunning and revered. Bloo, in part, was the colony's spine, its elder.

And then, one day, they decided to leave.

"Bloo, we're going."

"Wait, why?"

"The waters are changing, you know."

"They're the same to me."

"Well, yeah."

"Okay, fair."

"Uncle Bloo, there are ice chips."

Bloo carefully studied the surroundings. The sunlight reflected off the ice shards in the waters. The ice shined like blue crystals. Bloo had never seen their home more beautiful.

"But this is home."

"There's lots of places to make a home. The ocean is huge, Uncle—"

"—And dangerous!"

"Come with us. Swimming, singing. We can do that anywhere."

And Bloo wanted to go, to follow his freezing kin to warmer waters. He figured he was game for another cycle of life. His being was impervious, endlessly adaptable. He swam a couple nervous circles, preparing his answer. It was easy—Just go, what is there to think about? And then he caught sight of the tether, the depths, the incessant and powerful calling he suffered.

"So long," Bloo said to his younger kin, "Find home. Make it beautiful, yeah?"

"We love you Uncle."

"I love you all too."

And so the colony gathered for goodbyes. There were tears and embraces (swimming through him, around him, playing in his smoke). The final departure was marked by a tributary song with Bloo belting out his clearest, most impassioned note. And then the colony left, journeying towards warmer, more tropical waters.

Finally, after a lifetime as an undead, Bloo was ready to see discover the secrets down below. He took a deep breath—a leftover cope from his anatomical body—and at last plunged into the depths.

*

Bloo came to quickly discover that the darkness was full of doubt, uncertainty, even despair. He traveled alone, following his intuition, locking in on a trail of fear that plagued sea creatures that'd wandered off course. In those midnight waters, Bloo flowed through to save anyone lost and lonely, to guide them, whoever they happened to be. During his first encounter with a lost fish, he led them back into the light. He swallowed them, smothering their devastation with his other-worldly body. They swam inside of Bloo as he ascended from the depths. Blinded by the murk, fishes now had a guide, a translucent chaperone, and on their ascent Bloo spoke words of affirmation and reassurance:

Don't worry, keep going.

I'm here for you.

Everybody sinks. But now isn't your time.

Up, up, up. Up is the way.

Bloo was familiar with fear and knew even better how to speak away its power. His massive non-body at last had a material effect. He touched others without touching them. When his hitchhikers emerged from the depths, the fish said its thank-you's and swam away.

And in this way, he served for another decade.

Occasionally, the depths spoke to him: Are you ready yet?

But he stubbornly held on, continuing to save all manner of animals: scaled ones, shelled ones, coral-clinging critters.

Then one day he saved a whale child. When it escaped the depths it sang out as loudly as it could, calling out to its clan. Bloo watched the sound waves vibrate through the waters, casting tiny bubbles in its wake, but he left before the reunion. Bloo didn't want to know if the whale belonged to his colony, and he knew his heart would've dragged him back to the upper seas. Those days were done. He'd found a new place to be, the d—. He stopped himself. Ah, yes...He knew then that it was time.

Bloo flexed his tail, tugging at the white tether, and his descent began.

As he sunk he stared up at the surface. "Goodbye," he said—to the creatures he'd helped, to migrating nieces and nephews, to the friendly and comforting currents of his home—and, for the first time in years, a stream of bubbles, the waters vibrating from his words, his speech blessedly distorted. His old voice had returned, just in an aged, cracked frequency.

He suddenly found himself back in his own body. It'd been so long. He couldn't move it, and was honestly shocked that it'd survived all this time, a dead-ship of bones, preserved and hollow. Down he continued, slowly, slowly, the darkness passing before the remains of his eyes. And then suddenly—thud! He'd contacted the bottom, knocking a final breath out of his gargantuan body.

In the years that followed, the waters were known by the local sea creatures for its reassuring energy. A radiating, caretaking spirit persisted in the area, one which they jokingly named the fishing net. The force was described as something that swallowed and hugged you at the same time. It carried you when you were lost. It swam you home. The currents had an usher, a guide. The origins were unknown and creatures casually accepted it as one of the ocean's many blessings.

Nobody thought twice about the previous settlement of whales that'd migrated to the tropics. The local history of the whales was exactly that—just history. But when creatures lost their way—fishes schooling in the wrong direction, sea-stars settling in the wrong batch of coral, a whale child crying out for their missing tribe—in came a current, giant and sweeping, the frequency of Bloo's love forever fish-boning throughout the depths.