Here's something I've been working on for a while. Not sure how accurate a portrayal it is, but Black-Spot is a Betta brownorum (http://www.ibcbettas.org/smp/species/brownorum.html
). Part two is already in the works, and includes a bit more action.
Black-Spot slipped through the tangled snarl of roots and fallen branches. Sunlight streamed through the canopy above, scattering a school of rasboras as they hunted amongst the leaf litter.
A swarm of mosquitoes skimmed low over the surface of the water, and Black-Spot moved silently beneath them, stalking the swarm as it dipped and flitted in the golden bars of afternoon sunlight. He was mesmerised by their mating dance: the rapid twists and turns of the females as they were swept along by the swirling mass of males.
Something startled them, and as one, the mosquitoes skittered sideways in alarm. For a moment the cloud hovered so close, he could see the iridescent flash of their wings, and hear their soft whine. With a jerk of his tail, Black-Spot leapt high from the water. Too late, the mosquitoes darted upwards, trying to escape. They seemed to move in slow motion, and in an instant he was amongst them. With one crunch of his powerful jaws, the mosquito stopped its thrashing. His belly full, Black-Spot turned and vanished suddenly into the murky shadows.
The air was heavy with the promise of rain. In the canopy above, even the towering tualangs buckled under the force of the wind. Ripples broke the surface of the pool, stirring up debris that had gathered undisturbed, over the dry season. The first drops of rain sounded like thunder, and for a moment, all was confusion. The normally gentle forest stream was turned into a churning mass of water, and Black-Spot struggled towards the surface, feeling himself being pushed further and further downstream. He snatched a frantic breath of air, trying desperately to force his way back, knowing he must not be swept away.
But out here, the current was too strong to fight against, and it bore him along. Helpless, Black-Spot let himself be carried away from the only home he had known. Once or twice he was thrown up against the rocks so violently, he was nearly stunned. It seemed like forever until the seething torrent finally slowed. Black-Spot cautiously wriggled his tail, finding it easier now to turn and move upstream. Though the current still pulled at him, it had lost its brutal strength.
Yet this part of the stream did not look at all familiar. Black-Spot wondered how far it was that he had been carried by the floodwater. His gills fluttered, and aware of a growing discomfort, he made a sudden, panicked dash for the surface. Taking a gulp of air, Black-Spot shot down to safety as a shadow passed overhead. A Kingfisher, seeing the flash of scales through the thick vegetation, sat perched on a nearby branch. It watched the water intently, as a terrified Black-Spot crept along the stream bed, his fins clamped close to his body and only the smallest of ripples to mark his passing.