“He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have” Socrates

"Happiness is the light on the water. The water is cold and dark and deep." William Maxwell

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Marena kneels on the damp sand; a gesture of desperate prayer, or humble submission to the sea's strength and her inevitable return. The cold air ripples her nakedness. She tastes brine, whiskey and tears on her silent, wind-chapped lips, hears sad songs locked in her head.

She takes a last swig from the nearly empty whiskey bottle, then stands and limps forwards under the weight of her strange, lead heavy black boots. She steps into the shimmering sea, leaving her hopes and dreams on the shoreline – brittle driftwood among her scattered clothes.

Walk becomes wade. Her arms caress the water with their curves. Once way out of her depth, she dives downwards. Bubbles burst from her mouth, lungs gasp, her aching legs flail, fingers claw for something solid. Will she fail in this as she has failed everything else: marriage, children, her life – new and old?

But the slippery water, once more familiar than earth or air, slides away from her smooth skin and unnatural legs. Then the sound of the sea fills her ears, her mind stills and flesh turns to liquid silk as she glides towards infinity.

When she surfaces again some days later, the coroner finds her torso strangely preserved; skin untouched and sleek as fresh seaweed. Clumps of malignant cells, clustered like caviar, smother her ovaries, uterus and lungs. The trawler man who found her tells how her body dropped from his nets onto the deck; her skin shining in the sunlight like the scales of a wet fish.

6 November, 2007

Since taking part in the Your Messages project, I have edited this piece slightly to:

A Fish Out of Water (or The Mermaid's Tail )

"Happiness is the light on the water. The water is cold and dark and deep."

Marena can't remember who wrote these words but they resonate with her. She found them on the internet, doing a search for 'happiness'. As she had chosen to live in this world, she felt she ought to keep up with its technology and maybe also work out what had gone wrong for her.

She repeats the words to herself now, as she kneels on the damp sand; a gesture of desperate prayer, or humble submission to the sea's strength and her inevitable return. The cold air ripples her nakedness. She tastes brine, whiskey and tears on her silent, wind-chapped lips, hears sad songs locked in her head.

Taking one last swig from the nearly empty whiskey bottle, Marena stands and then limps forwards under the weight of her strange, lead heavy black boots. She steps into the shimmering sea, leaving her hopes and dreams on the shoreline – brittle driftwood among her scattered clothes.

Walk becomes wade. Her arms caress the water with their curves. Once way out of her depth, she dives downwards. Bubbles burst from her mouth, lungs gasp, her aching legs flail, fingers claw for something solid. Will she fail in this as she has failed everything else: marriage, children, her life – new and old?

But the slippery water, once more familiar than earth or air, slides away from her smooth skin and unnatural legs. Then the sound of the sea fills her ears, her mind stills and flesh turns to liquid silk as she glides towards infinity.

When she surfaces again days later, the coroner finds her torso strangely preserved; skin untouched and sleek as fresh seaweed. Clumps of malignant cells, clustered like caviar, smother her ovaries, uterus and lungs. The trawler man who found her tells how he released her from his nets, her skin shining in the sunlight like the scales of a wet fish.