Fish, Konstantin Korobov

Fish, Konstantin Korobov

Dunkleosteus hunted in the shallows. There were fewer places for its prey to hide there. It was attentive to the tides, careful to avoid the rocks and swam only over the sands.

Snap!

Good-bye, Orodus.

Crunch!

Down goes an ammonite.

But, one morning, a tiny grey shark would not be caught. It dodged every lunge like a breeze does fingers. (Dunkleosteus did not know what a breeze was, but it would learn.)

Dunkleosteus grew as determined as a placoderm could, and—as much as a fish can decide anything—decided to catch this slippery prey above all costs. They chased through the shallows, charging and evading, reaching and retreating.

The tide began to go out. The shark winnowed over the rocks, its dorsal fin cutting the surface. Dunkleosteus surged at the shark, its back breaking the surface of the sea, its belly dragging over the stones. It nearly gutted itself on their sharp edges. The shark wormed away, but Dunkleosteus was stuck. The waters sloshed about its body. It struggled, heaved, wrenched its bulk against gravity and stone, but in vain.

The sea dragged the waters away, abandoning Dunkleosteus on the stones. Its gills pumped against the air; its eyes clouded in the wind; its fins curled over the corals. Then it was still, a victim of Devonian hubris.