What Happened When Frank Died: The Whale

Frank died.

I’m a whale, he thought.

He didn’t know why he thought it. He knew it was true. He sighed. Water fled the scene. Not just a whale, he realized. A damn big whale.

Frank swam. He didn’t know how, or why, but he just did. It felt like breathing.

All around him a song echoed. He understood it. At first it sounded beautiful.

Then, Frank concentrated.

“Do you think we see colors differently than before. I can’t remember? How do you think all this got here, you know, like, all this, wow! I think God must be a whale,” a voice called, ponderously.

Frank looked around, very slowly.

“Hello!” Frank called. And, though it didn’t come out as he was used to, he knew he’d said it. It traveled across the ocean.

“Oh hello! Do you think we see colors differently than the dolphins?” The Voice sang back.


“Colors. You know, blue, green, red, violet,” The voice called.

“Where are you?” Frank called.

“Pink, light blue, dark blue, brown. Brown is an ugly color don’t you think?”

Frank waited. When the voice faded, he called again. “Where are you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere.”

“Are you a whale?”

The Voice hummed. “I suppose so.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Now that is a question!” The voice called back.

“Are you dead?” Frank called.

“Oh, what is death, really?”

Frank tried to control his temper. “What do you mean ‘what is death’?”

“Well, I suppose I died. Once, maybe twice. Maybe more. But, I’m not dead now, am I?”

What a pity, Frank thought.

“Can all the whales speak?”

“Oh yes, they’ve been quiet for the past few months though. Who cares. They talked about boring stuff anyways. Tides, mostly, and krill.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Oh, a few months,” the voice said, without irony.

“No Kidding.”


“And what is your name?” Frank asked.

“John. You?”

“Frank, how old are you John?”

“Nine-teen. Or, well, what is age? Really? I might be thousands of years old. And now I’m a whale! Isn’t that brilliant?”

“Oh, just grand. So, what? Is this it?”

“Well, what do you mean it? You know, before I died I was studying philosophy. And, oh boy, if I could tell my professors about this! I mean it, what is it? This gives a whole new meaning to it. We’re whales!”

Frank floated along, thinking.


“Yeah John?”

“You’re not going to go quiet like the others, will you?”

“No, John. I’ll be here.”

“Oh good. Hey Frank? Have you ever read any Nietzsche?”

Frank looked out at the cloudy blue waters and sighed the best a whale can sigh.


“Did you hear me Frank?”




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    • Haha, I can’t help it. I just walk around or someone says something and I think…”huh…that would be amusing.” and people just keep encouraging me. Eventually I will go too far and someone will say “Okay, okay, line crossed.”


      • Actually there is a line. I love your stories – I think I’ve made that clear. But I am 73 and would like to send copies to my grandaughter but I have to stop the ones with f..bombs. I personally think they add nothing to your really great posts and are unnecessary – or am I just an old fuddy duddy.

        Liked by 1 person

      • That is true. I often question using the f word in some stories. Most of the time I do simply because I want the magical realism to genuinely reflect reality and it follows twenty something year olds who often swear. Kind of like those shows on TV where you know they’d be swearing if it wasn’t on tv. I’ll pay a bit more attention to it in the future. Or if you’d like I can clean them up and send them to you personally if there are some you find that you think she’d particularly like. I’m sure if I ever get published I will be encouraged to clean up some of my work anyways. There are many times I’ll sit and erase an f bomb and put dammit or something else. And I’ll go back and forth like that for a while. Thanks for that feedback though. It is something I’ve been mulling over since more people have started reading my work.

        Liked by 1 person

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