The Shakespearean Goldfish

Harry wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was after that late-night binge of takeout and whiskey, or maybe it was just a result of staring at the same four walls for too long. Either way, the fact remained: his goldfish was talking.

It started small. A murmur of bubbles. But by the end of the week, Gilbert—that was the fish’s name—was holding full-blown conversations. And not just any conversations. No, Gilbert spoke only in Shakespearean verse.

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and I am, alas, swimming in this accursed bowl!” Gilbert declared one morning, his beady eyes following Harry’s every move.

Harry, clutching his mug of stale coffee, rubbed his temples. “I need to get out more,” he muttered.

Gilbert swished his tail dramatically. “Nay, master! ‘Tis not thine isolation, but thine inability to listen to the wisdom of those who dwell beneath the watery deep!”

Harry squinted at the fish. “Are you quoting Romeo and Juliet to me?”

“Aye,” Gilbert replied, puffing out his gills. “For within this glass prism, I find myself a tragic hero, with no fair maiden, nor an end to my sorrows!”

Harry blinked. “Right. Well, that’s fantastic. I need a lie down.”

He tried to ignore it, really he did. But Gilbert wouldn’t let him. The next day, the fish had moved on to Hamlet.

“To swim, or not to swim, that is the question! Whether ‘tis nobler in the tank to suffer the pellets of outrageous fortune…”

Harry groaned. “Please, Gilbert, just eat your fish flakes and shut up.”

“Wouldst thou silence a poet?” Gilbert countered.

Harry stared. He wasn’t sure if he was more disturbed by the fact that his fish was talking, or that it was somehow better read than him. He decided it was the latter.

After a week of relentless soliloquies, Harry found himself flipping through an old copy of Shakespeare’s Complete Works, trying to keep up with his piscine companion’s literary tirades. He didn’t dare tell anyone. Who would believe him? The pub regulars already thought he was a bit odd, and his boss had made it clear that “another daydreaming incident” would not be acceptable.

But Gilbert was relentless. “I prithee, master,” the fish said one evening, “dost thou not dream of greater things? Adventure, romance, a life beyond these dreary walls?”

Harry frowned. “I’m an accountant, Gilbert. My idea of adventure is filing taxes on time.”

Gilbert flicked his tail dismissively. “Fie upon such notions! Fortune favours the bold!”

“Fortune favours people who don’t listen to their fish,” Harry grumbled, downing another gulp of beer.

Yet, deep down, something stirred. Maybe Gilbert had a point—though he wasn’t quite ready to admit that his existential crisis was being fuelled by a goldfish quoting King Lear.

Weeks past and Harry found himself… enjoying it. He read more. Thought more. And, without quite knowing why, he started applying for new jobs.

One morning, as he dusted off a rather smart shirt he hadn’t worn in years, Gilbert eyed him through the glass and uttered, “This above all: to thine own self be true.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it, fish.”

Gilbert grinned—or at least Harry thought he did. “Methinks thou art finally listening, dear master.”

And as Harry walked out the door, feeling strangely lighter, Gilbert swam a satisfied circle and muttered, “All the world’s a stage… and mine is but a bowl.”

Later that day, Harry bought Gilbert a bigger bowl, and introduced him to a lady goldfish called Julia, who also had a fond appreciation of Renaissance literature.