Five Eulogies for Goldie by Bethany Bruno

Toilet Bowl Funeral

The first time Goldie died, my father flushed him without ceremony. “Quick and painless,” he muttered. I leaned over the bowl, watching the orange body spiral down. My mother ruffled my hair and said, “That’s life,” before boiling spaghetti.

But the next morning, Goldie was back. He filled the toilet tank, scales brushing porcelain, one cloudy eye staring at me as if we’d both made a mistake. My father cursed but could not bring himself to flush again. “He wants something,” my sister whispered.

We lifted him into a salad bowl, then into the bathtub. The water clouded with his movements, a shimmer that felt alive even when he wasn’t. For days he swam circles while we brushed our teeth. He stared at his reflection in the faucet as though searching for another way out.

Back to the Earth

When he died again, belly-up, my father fetched the shovel. This time we buried him behind the hibiscus, covering him with dirt and petals. The soil smelled of rain though it hadn’t rained in weeks, as if Goldie carried a storm inside him.

I pressed a marble into the soil, its green glass catching the sun before it vanished. My sister tucked in a crayon stub, and my father, reluctant but moved, dropped his house keys as though bribing the dead. My mother murmured half a prayer, a tune that might have been a hymn, might have been a lullaby.

We marked the grave with a plastic flamingo from last summer’s yard sale. At night the wind rattled its hollow legs, and I swore I heard Goldie shifting beneath the roots.

By morning, mushrooms ringed the grave, pale and waxy as teeth. The hibiscus blossoms opened wider than ever, petals sticky, humming with flies. My sister dreamed of water rushing through her room, her bed carried like a raft toward the ocean.

We thought dirt, petals, and marbles might hold him. But earth is weak against water, and Goldie belonged to currents we could not bury.

Bathtub Baptism

Goldie’s third death was gentler. We woke to find him floating, tail still, mouth open mid-sentence. My sister cried, not because he was gone but because she was tired of saying goodbye.

My father built a shoebox casket, lined with cotton balls and his old ties. He lowered Goldie in, hands shaking. “This is the last time,” he said, though none of us believed him.

We carried the box to the churchyard. The priest refused to bless a fish, so we hummed our own psalm. My mother lit a candle, wax dripping onto my wrist. A stray cat followed, mewling as if it wanted to mourn too.

By dawn, the shoe box was empty. Goldie had slipped free, larger now. He lay in the community pool, shimmering under the chlorine sky. Kids squealed and tried to ride his back. Someone threw in pool noodles like offerings. The lifeguard blew her whistle until her cheeks turned blue.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to die,” I said. My father frowned. “Or maybe he doesn’t want us to forget.” The cat licked its paws and stared into the water.

Beachside Resurrection

Goldie’s return to the ocean drew a crowd. He was enormous, bigger than the lifeguard stand, his body gleaming like wet copper. Tourists snapped photos. Some swore he was mechanical, an art piece funded by the city. A man with a megaphone sold T-shirts with Goldie’s face.

But when he blinked at me, I knew. The same cloudy eye, the same shimmer of recognition.

My father rented a U-Haul. We strapped Goldie on top, scales flashing under streetlights. A parade formed without invitation—strangers following, children waving, a brass band appearing from the air. Their horns bent the night with feverish notes, wild and bright, echoing through every alley. My sister threw fish flakes like confetti. A woman offered plastic roses, claiming real flowers would drown.

We buried Goldie in the football field. The principal protested, but the coach called it school spirit. For weeks the grass grew greener, thick and soft as moss. We laid flowers, coins, bottle caps, anything shiny enough to please a fish. Some kids carved his name into the goalposts.

But grief is greedy. By the next season, the earth had given him up again.

Skyfish

Now Goldie hovers above the town, blotting out the sun. His body drifts like a blimp, tail sweeping clouds into new shapes. The mayor has called for evacuation. My father has packed his bags.

But I sit on the curb, staring up. Goldie’s mouth opens, and the sound of rushing water pours out, rattling every windowpane. My sister swears she hears words in it: hunger, forgetting, forever.

The shadow he casts makes noon feel like midnight. Streetlamps flicker, birds fly in frantic circles, and the air smells faintly of salt. Neighbors complain of endless darkness. I only feel relief. The sky is heavy with someone I love.

When Goldie’s eye swivels down to meet mine, I remember the marble I buried with him, the promise of play. His belly glows with light as if holding oceans.

I think he is waiting. If I climbed the telephone pole, if I leapt high enough, he would carry me away. His scales would press against me, warm as the sun he hides, his current tugging me toward a horizon no map has ever drawn.

And maybe this time, neither of us would have to come back.

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BETHANY BRUNO — Bethany is a Floridian author and amateur historian. She holds a BA in English from Flagler College and an MA from the University of North Florida. Her work has appeared in more than a hundred literary journals and magazines, including The Sun, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, River Teeth’s Beautiful Things, Brevity, and The Huffington Post. A Best of the Net nominee, she won 2025 flash fiction contests from Inscape Journal and Blue Earth Review. She is the winner of the 2026 Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Award. Learn more at www.bethanybrunowriter.com.

Art by ALI McLAFFERTY — Ali is a high-school history teacher, writer, and artist living in Austin, Texas. She is absolutely thrilled to have both her writing and art featured in Flash Frog. She loves funky antique stores, decorating her classroom like a cozy Victorian parlor, gardening, mushroom-growing, and the occasional dabble in witchcraft.