Untethered

After focusing mainly on poetry over the past few years, I’m really enjoying diving back into short stories—creating worlds and exploring them in new ways. My last two stories (Beatrice Never Leaves and Silently Seeking Soles) began as quirky true events that I stumbled across online, and this one is no different.

Sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction: when I came across an article about a kidnapped emotional support alligator, misplaced and set loose in a Georgia swamp, I thought, Now, there’s a story!

As you know, I love telling stories from unusual perspectives. So here’s my take on the alligator’s own side of the story, as he discovers the unsettling truth of what freedom really means.

Untethered

I don’t belong here. I never have. Maybe I don’t belong anywhere. Or maybe there’s somewhere out there, but I’ll never find it.

There’s a weight in the air today, heavier than usual. I sense them before I hear them—quick steps, voices low but certain. They don’t move like my master, with his slow, familiar steps. And he isn’t here.

He’s why they’ve come. His need for attention, his hunger for an audience—any audience—led others to know of me and seek me out.

Their voices drift closer—excited, hushed, like they’re sharing secrets. It reminds me of the crowds my master used to lead me to, those bright places filled with people who watched, some leaning in close, others hanging back. Their laughter always had an edge, hiding their unease, hiding their fear.

He liked that. He liked the way they looked at me, curious but cautious. He barely had to say a word—they already saw me as something strange. And he’d still tell his stories, like my strangeness somehow reflected back on him, making him seem important. Even when it was just us, he seemed to be performing for someone else. I don’t think he ever really saw me.

They’re closer now, murmuring to each other, stealing glances my way. I know that look—fascination mixed with something else. I’ve seen it before, but today, it feels different.

They lift me, hands gripping tight as they carry me outside. The harness wraps around my body—the constant weight I’ve known my whole life, snug just behind my forelimbs. It’s always been there, holding me in place, tethering me to their world. Without it, I don’t know what I am. I’m not sure I can move the way they think I can.

Their voices hum around me, buzzing with excitement. Freedom, they say. He’s been penned up too long. He deserves this. They talk like I should be grateful, but I’ve never known what they’re offering. The pen was small, but it was familiar. In there, I knew what I was. I used to wonder about the world outside, but the pen became all I knew. It didn’t matter—until now.

And then, the harness loosens. Fingers tug at the straps, sliding them free from my body. The weight I’ve always known slips away, leaving me exposed, unsteady. Without it, my balance shifts strangely. I should feel free, but instead, I feel lost.

They think they’re helping me, but they don’t understand what I need. The harness kept me close to their world, held me steady. Without it, I’m weightless. Untethered.

They think this is my moment—that I’m about to become what I was meant to be. But I’ve spent my life inside the pen. And out here, there is no fence. Something stirs deep, instinctive, a memory of motion—of swift, cutting movements through water—but it’s faint, and I can’t hold onto it. Whatever skills I should have—they’re gone. This world is open, vast, but it’s no less confining. I don’t know what’s waiting for me.

Their hands lift me higher, and for a moment, I wonder if they’re taking me to the better place my master spoke about. A new world. Freedom. They seem so sure. Maybe they know something I don’t. Maybe out there, in the wild, I’ll find whatever it is I’ve been missing.

The thought stirs something deeper, and I feel my body tense, a ripple of energy building through my tail. I feel alive, ready. I flex my limbs, and for a brief, dizzying moment, I feel a rush of strength, the instinct to move coursing through me.

But then I hear one of them yelp, “He’s moving—careful!” Their hands fumble, grips slipping, and suddenly, I’m twisting, weightless. The sky spins above me, a rush of cold air against my skin. I’m falling.

For a heartbeat, I think this might be what I’ve been waiting for. But then the impact hits—hard, unsteady—and I know it’s not.

I try to swim, but nothing feels right. My body moves in fits and starts, more instinct than memory, and I feel a faint pull inside, like something deep and ancient is trying to guide me. The motions are clumsy, the movements slow; they should be faster, sharper. The years of stillness in the pen have left me unsure. The water doesn’t cradle me; it presses in, pushing from all sides, pulling me down.

I drift deeper, the swamp pulling me down, steady and slow. It feels like a mouth, closing around me, swallowing me whole. There’s no fight left—only the quiet, familiar pull of sinking.

Above, the world fades into shadows. Below, there’s only dark, stretching out forever.

They thought freedom would make me whole again, thought I’d return to some lost part of myself. I thought it too. But after a life in captivity—I never learned what it takes to survive. I only know what it means to be held.

This place they call freedom feels like another cage, vast and endless, yet closing in from all sides. Maybe I was never meant for it. Maybe I was always meant to sink.

© 2024 Robert M. Ford. All rights reserved.