I’ll do anything I can to incorporate the image of a mermaid into a piece of writing. So, here’s a piece of micro-fiction I wrote, doing just that:

I found you deep beneath the rising tides, buried in the folds of pebbly sand. Your eyes were closed, your arms were limber; you were still breathing air. How peculiar, I thought, a creature with these legs still alive, in a world such as mine. Starkly naked, I decided you needed some garments. I fashioned you an outfit, made from the finest seaweed and shells. No one was to know you were different, because I decided to keep you forever. He doesn’t have to be like me, I promised myself. Until the day that your lids struck wide and you placed them upon my scales. Erupted with disgust, you slid through the weeds and the water, deserting your selfish lover on the ocean floor.


A piece of micro-fiction I wrote, enjoy!

Vanquishing the land that mother earth had given him, the young boy threw shovels of dirt behind him. Surely she will understand that I am ruining her gift for the sake of my happiness, he thought. Towering far above his cranium was the peak of a mountain—too high to climb, he thought. Best go through it, he thought. The horse that stood behind him continuously interrupted his progress. Brown, tall and chivalrous, he reminded the young boy of the difficult task that lay ahead. “Sure,” the boy said to the horse, “it might not be easy, but I’ll see her on the other side, waiting for me, and she will have to love me.”


It was dark and it was draft, but rather exquisite in the way that it fit their needs so perfectly and unintentionally. A soft bass played in the background, high above their heads, with the lyrics loud and looming nearby. She pressed her rear on the edge of a high, wooden stool and used her feet to boost herself up properly; holding a tight grasp on the edge of the table, organising her body into position.

His face was distracted, pointed towards far corners of the room as if he had seen something possibly recognisable, but gone too quickly to trig his memory. As his mind raided itself, flicking back and forth, he slowly made his way over to her. Placing the wallet in his left hand on the table, and his right on her knee. His thumb slowly circled in one spot on her delicate skin and she silently thanked herself for remembering to moisturise.

His eyes slowly stopped flicking and he managed to focus his attention to her face. Bronzed, smooth and with a subtle gleam. Her eyes stayed clear, an image of sea glass in colour. Cheeks flushed, her tongue ran over her bottom lip, slowly spreading the small amount of lipstick that remained from hours earlier. He fought the urge to press his lips upon hers and taste the crimson red for himself. Instead, he lifted the hand from her leg to her face. His fingers cupping from her jaw to her temple with his thumb continuing to stroke her skin. She blinked; lasting a second longer than the times before, managing a jagged exhale as she did so, but slowly returning to a face of composure. Eyes locked, he licked his lips, wanting so badly to take the lunge, until the heat of her face stopped his heart cold and the immediate whim overwhelmed him completely; forcing him to drop his hand from her cheek. Her eyes fluttered to her fingertips in response, focusing intently on the chipping white nail polish.

I sat perched on the ceiling beam, my legs hanging freely; invisible to the others, though unsure that I wanted to be. It was at this moment that my assistance was most required, before the boil would reduce to a simmer. I’d been completing these tasks for longer than I cared to remember; piercing hearts together, mostly to coexist in harmony until cause of death. It was unlikely that the bond I offered didn’t last, but it seemed to be more common these days.

I watched the boy slurp down the remainder of his beer, slamming the glass on the table as he finished. His head slowly turned to the girl, and he inhaled the look on her face like he wouldn’t see those eyes, those lips, ever again. Pointing to her drink, he told her to finish it and they would go home. She obligingly nodded her head, resting her lips on the rim of the glass and forcing the thick fluid down her throat. It tasted bitter, like a soap; it didn’t seem to bother her however, just a mere reminder that it would cleanse her insides in a way that other things couldn’t.

My arrow was pulled taught against the string of my bow; the feathers on my wings fluffed in preparation for a swift flight. Their eyes locked once more. I wanted so badly to help, to fulfil the duties required of me, but self pity is consuming and it came over me like a heat I had never known. It filled my lungs, my throat and it burned down to my stomach; skipping over the emptiness of my chest that separates me from all the rest.

I lowered my bow, releasing the tension, turning it in an angle I had never before. My arms positioned awkwardly, a sharpness resting across my abdomen. An inhale, an exhale, and a release of the string. Pierced in the stomach by my own whimsical misery, I would no longer be the jewel maker of hearts.