prototype (i)

The whispered confession is ethereal. It’s the caress of wind on the translucent pinks; ear, seashell. The breath of life rides in on a hint of sea breeze. The truth is that we are nowhere near the sea. We are surfing on bytes of data, tumbling along copper wires, humming along minute vibrations in the air. Where we are, the screech of an Arctic Tern is an expletive. Where we are, sounds are shrimp. Where we are, the electric mermaids live.

Mermaids. Carried from shore to shore by sailors and fear. There was a period of time that saw them take the form of monsters – withered, grotesque creatures. Sideshow freaks that drew no breath, they were, in reality, the dried-up corpses of fish and monkey. Scales married to fur by needle and thread. Skilful fingers aided the devious, the voices that rang out come one come all, collected copper coin in top hat and burlap sack. Lies kept the gears of the economy cranking, and nothing has changed at all.

They lie still in tombs, in temples, in the nightmares of many a child. In myth and twisted fairytale they exude elegance, mystery, sleek and deadly charm. Prayers waft into hardened ear canals, chants and wishes of those seeking the void and inner peace. Here a man murmurs, lips moving over his clasped hands. There a mermaid listens.

There a mermaid listens.

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