A short story

By Cassie Swindon

2023

A Fairy Tale Flip prequel to “The Wicked Blue”

How can I paint the taste of saltwater? I swipe more colors from my palate to stroke the beach I’m overlooking. How will the viewer experience the taste of the sea?

I’ve been raised to fear the waters and detest the merfolk who lurk Below. Yet I find myself licking my lips to savor a little flavor from the forbidden.

Standing on my balcony, gazing at the crimson horizon, wind whips my hair. Sometimes I have a strange compulsion to lean forward, slightly too far over the balcony’s edge. Do the wind nymphs detect the confusing longing that teases me to test the boundaries and dip my toes in the waves just once? If I fall over this balcony, will those very nymphs catch me and carry me to the tides to please my soul?

I brush another curve on my canvas, then try to move a stray hair out of my face with my forearm. Otherwise, my hands would be responsible for a cluster of pinks and oranges smeared across my forehead.

Bending sideways, I survey the landscape from a different angle. What would it be like to sail on a ship to where the sky kisses the luminous blues? I may never have been aboard a boat, but I can still envision every shade the ocean would have to offer, from navy to cerulean to teal and cobalt.

I finish painting. I wait for Sampson’s design in which he promised me the same colors for his latest fashion genius. I glance around my studio, past the other two easels and the mess across my bed to where my best friend sits at a desk. His back is turned toward me as he furiously scribbles his vision on paper.

“Done yet?” I set down my palate and try not to trip over the half-hazard books strewn around my rug.

“Don’t rush me, Eribelle,” Sampson mumbles, but I can hear the smile in his voice. That’s good news. If he’s smiling, he likes what he has created. “And don’t brag that you finished first.”

I have half a mind to throw a pillow at his back but wouldn’t want to mess up his drawing. He groans, then flips the pencil over to erase something. In his frantic movements, he accidentally knocks eyeliner and eyeshadow onto the floor. Among my disastrous domain, they may be lost forever more.

“Done!” He twirls around fast in the spinny chair, holding his paper to his chest so I can’t see. “Show me yours first.”

“No way!” I block his view to the balcony where my painting is drying. “This was your idea, so you go first.”

He huffs. A burst of air blows a long lock of brown hair puff up for a moment. “Fine. But it’ll be better when its finished, I swear.”

As he turns it toward me, I gasp, and walk toward the beautiful outfit he drew. “Sampson! It’s perfect!”

“I hate that word. Nothing is supposed to be perfect. In fact, maybe I’ll rip the seam a little once you put it on just to teach you a thing or two.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” I grab his notebook.

The intricate detail of the outfit for my upcoming twenty-first birthday is breathtaking. Sampson used shades belonging to the sea: indigo, denim and berry. Blues shift and slide against each other in both contrast and balance.

“If I wear this, Dad will arrest you,” I choose to, in fact, throw the pillow in question to his head.

“Hey! The crop top isn’t that tight. And it’ll let you throw up your arms while dancing without any precious treasure falling out.”

I agree. But it’s the high-rise skirt that I can’t take my eyes off of– a piece made from liquid heaven. The way the fabric glides mirrors the fluidity of the ocean. It’s as if Sampson knows the one and only secret I’ve kept from him–my longing to explore the sea. Yet, he’s also my only confidant who understands the harsh punishment Dad would lash out at me if I were to be caught in the waters.

I should have better sense than to wish to explore the Below. Apparently, my stupid genes have won in a battle against my survival instincts because I’m seriously considering changing my plans tonight and taking the risk.

“So…? You like it?” Sampson’s biting his nail, while his knees are curled into his chest.

“No! I love it! Don’t change a single thing.” I point to the blue skirt. “What material do you have in mind? This looks like silk.”

“I’ll surprise you.” He winks and takes his notebook back. “Well, Sugar Pants, what time are you leaving?”

I dramatically collapse on Sampson’s lap. “Do I have to go?”

“Eribelle, Eribelle, Eribelle…” he starts with an outrageous fake accent, “you, m’lady are the most popular, most anticipated person at the ball tonight. Of course, you have to go, unless…” Sampson loops and twists my hair into an updo with mastery skill, despite my odd angle of hanging off his lap. “Unless you are planning any shenanigans. I think I can get on board with shenanigans, especially if they involve Kilka milkshakes.”

Sampson taps the Taj99 device on his wrist and pushes a few buttons until a milkshake recipe is projected against my wall, with a very high level of alcohol mix required.

“Holy Abyss, Sampson, do you plan on killing me with that?” I topple off his lap onto the floor and begin cleaning up some of the mess. “If I drink that much, I might even make out with you tonight.”

He makes a gag face and rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll go easy on the Kilka this time.” Sampson slaps my ass while he moves toward my bedroom door. “You need to get ready and I need to find a snack, which I won’t be sharing.”

“You have so much hatred.”

“I said what I said.” He glides out the door, humming a recent Talia Sanchez song that echoes down the hallway.

Alone, I groan and check the time on my own Taj99. Only an hour until the guests expect my grand entrance. Maybe I can convince Dad to let me skip this event. Not even a second goes by until I laugh away at that possibility. Possible buyers from Khajit, Gonia and even Ozaron will be in attendance, and they all expect to see Finley Erickson’s famous daughter– the only human known to have blue eyes. If Dad has any chance of selling more yachts than last year, I should play my part.

A strong cinnamon aroma wafts through my doorway and footsteps thud against the hardwood, growing louder with each step.

“Damn it,” I quickly crawl to toss a blanket over my most recent painting and shove my paintbrushes under my bed.

“Eribelle?” Dad’s voice booms like a giant. “What are you doing spread out on the floor like that?”

I bend into a yoga pose, one foot and one hand off the ground, then take a centering breath.

“Ah, that’s my girl. It’s always good to brag about your flexibility.”

I almost puke. Maybe I should. Then perhaps I can get out of this party if I fake an illness.

“I brought your favorite snack,” Dad says, offering a cinnamon bun mid-air.

There’s no point in correcting him with my intense chocolate obsession since he’d forget by tomorrow anyway. Dad starts talking business and his expectations for my behavior tonight, but I tune him out and listen to the waves crashing into the pier outside. Seagulls squawk and the familiar shouts of fishermen greeting each other all blend into a painting in my mind. If I close my eyes, I can see the white foam making shapes on the seashells and footprints pushed into the sand. The textures, shapes, and colors all form an image of freedom.

“… Eribelle? So, what do you think?” Dad checks his Taj as an incoming message alerts him with a beep. “Can I count on you to do that, tonight?”

“Uh, yeah. Definitely.”

“That’s my good girl. I’m so lucky. You’ll always be my biggest prize.” Dad turns away, his shoulder width barely fitting through the doorway. “Oh, and if the mayor of Runlose cozies up to you, just play along. We wouldn’t want a repeat of last year, now do we?”

My insides turn to mush. Of course, I’m a prize. Of course, he backhandedly threatens me. Of course, I’m forced to attend another boring event with a silent competition of whose wallet is bigger than whose. Of course, I’ll be used by Dad to make more sales.

As his footsteps fade away, I shove a bit of a delicious cinnamon roll in my mouth. Sugar probably coats my lips, but it’s not as if I’ll be putting on lipstick anymore. There’s no way in Abyss I’m going tonight. I leave the rest of the dessert for Sampson to finish off when he returns. But by then, I’ll be gone. I can’t send him a Taj message because if there’s one thing Sampson sucks at, it’s lying.

Quickly. I tug on the straps of a backpack. It’s buckle sticks on something under my bed. I yank and pull until it comes flying at me and I somersault backwards. As I shove a few essentials inside the bag, our three suns setting change the shape of the shadows within my room. I follow their rays to the open doors leading to my balcony. Running out the front door of Dad’s estate isn’t an option. Too many of his employees will ask why I haven’t yet changed into a ballgown. Or they’d take the opportunity to politely congratulate me on my appearance on the new billboard downtown. I’d have to flash another fake smile and gently bob my head until they’d eventually mosey away.

I carefully move my still-wet painting inside in case this fierce wind is followed by a storm later. My balcony doors lock from the inside once closed so if close them, there’s no turning back. I suck in a deep breath and shut them softly.

Warmth caresses my cheeks when I step out of the shade. Carefully, I peek over the edge. Heights haven’t ever scared me, but I’ve also never considered scaling the side of a four-story mansion before. Voices holler and laugh far below. If I fall, there aren’t really any wind nymphs to save me. This could be the most moronic choice I’ve ever made.

Heart pounding, I straddle the railing and wipe my sweaty hands on my t-shirt. Hoverboards rush by below but thankfully no rider has noticed me yet. I say a useless prayer to whatever Goddess might be watching over me and swing my legs over. The stone exterior creates many divots for someone experienced to latch their fingertips and toes on, but I’m no professional.

My shoe slides off its spot.

“Fuck!”

The muscles in my arms scream in protest. I manage to balance and gather my breath. I can’t fall. Keep going. Don’t fall. At a torturous speed, I scale down one stone at a time and somehow stay alive. Left foot. Right foot. Left arm. Right arm. Sweat drips down my temple. My pulse races.

Finally, my sneakers hit the pavement and my knees buckle. Shaking, my trembling hands hover over the street. I gulp and give myself three moments of panic. One. I can’t believe I just did that. Two. If Dad finds out… Three. Sampson will think I’m a rockstar.

Pressing off the ground, I straighten, walking taller, more confident than ever before. With each step, the waves pounding against the boulders roar louder. I’m almost there. A couple holding hands passes by me without a glance in my direction. They both seem captivated by the cheery song blasting from their Taj. I start walking to the beat with a bounce in my step, believing for the first time that I’ll swim in the ocean that has called me my entire life.

Why have I been such a coward? I should’ve tried this long ago. A bird swoops low, white wings outstretched, then lands to my right. Some of my classmates at university have rambled on when drunk or high about wanting to be a bird to soar through the open skies. I’ve never understood that desire. If given the chance, I’d be any sea creature besides a merfolk– perhaps a dolphin. I’d glide in the murky depths to experience a new life, where no one could tell me how to act or what to say or wear.

At last, the sounds from the bars down the street dissolve into distant hums and thumping beats. Ahead, the suns dip lower, ready to skim the horizon. My gaze locks onto a sail and I wonder if they’re headed to Ozaron, the city famous for its art and deep forests. Slipping my shoes off, I wiggle my toes in the sand. Do I dare enter? I scan for any signs of creepy merfolk spying on me. No one.

I toss my backpack where it’ll remain dry then slowly wade in the water. Ankle deep. I hold my breath. Water reaches my knees. Nothing catastrophic has happened yet. Maybe all the years of fears being carved into my mind were pointless.

I cringe. If Dad ever knew my thoughts, he’d …well, he wouldn’t listen to my pleas for the finances necessary to attend art school.

The water reaches my hips and I bask in the sensation of being halfway submerged. As corrupted as the merfolk are, I still wonder what it’d be like to live like them– under the sea. Do they have any form of art that could survive the elements of the wicked deep?

“ERIBELLE!” The familiar voice skids like scissors sliding against metal. “ERIBELLE! Get out of the water!” Sampson yells again and again, his calls growing louder and closer.

I should’ve explained to him, but this may be my only chance. Headfirst, I dive under. The icy cold doesn’t hit me as harshly as I expected. Instead, it’s almost soothing, like I’ve always been meant to swim. But it’s not where I belong since I can’t paint here.

Sampson’s muffled demands come from Above and I almost turn around. Unfortunately, I can’t hold my breath forever, so I swim as far as possible then breech to suck in a lungful of air. The waves rock me and water splashes my cheeks. I smile. Perfection. I don’t care if Sampson hates that word. This moment, right here, during the last moments of the setting suns, drenched from head to toe in the ocean is my perfect paradise.

Another scream comes from further out. In a small canoe, a woman bends over the side grabbing at the water like a lunatic. What is she doing? Did her hand get caught in her fishing net? I swim closer, faster, ready to help.

“Nate!” She peers over the side with wide eyes. “Nate!”

Immediately, I freeze. A high pithed sound rings in my ears. Shit. Someone has fallen overboard. I dip under but don’t see a sinking body nearby.

“Hey!” I yell but the lady doesn’t seem to hear me. “Hey!”

“Nate! No, no, they took him.”

My heart stops. They? I glance back to the shore. Sampson is jumping up and down, waving both hands in the air and wildly pointing behind me.

I spin. Bright scales shimmer. Merfolk. Many of them. Terror clenches my gut. I don’t stand a chance of outswimming them. If I can pull myself into the canoe, maybe the two of us can paddle back faster.

“Hey! Help me up!”

In a daze, the woman stands, paying me no attention and stares at the sky. I guess I’m on my own. Struggling, I heave myself into the boat despite it rocking back and forth.

“Nate,” she sits on a crate and mumbles the name again and again, “Nate, my Nate.”

Regret floods me before I act but I slap the stranger’s face. She whirls at me, noticing me for the first time.

“Take an oar!” I say, while paddling myself. “Come on!”

We move in a circle, the waves rocking us. What the Abyss was I thinking coming out here?

“Hey! I place my hands on either side of her face and stare into her brown eyes. “You need to row. We’re going to land. And you need to row now, understand?”

Slowly, she nods, tears running down her face. As she picks up an oar, slippery pale arms slide over the side of the canoe. Arms made of nightmares wrap tightly around my boatmate’s waist.

Screaming. Someone’s screaming. It might be me.

I clutch the oar and smack the merman’s arms until he let’s go.

A loud horn blares and bright headlights blind me for a few seconds. The merfolk all instantly swim away. We’re safe–for now. Shielding my eyes, I catch the name of the yacht drifting towards us, ‘The Eribelle.’ Dad’s boat. Double triple fucking shit.

To read all of Eribelle’s story, watch for updates for ‘The Wicked Blue,’ a gender reversal spin of Little Mermaid. This adult fantasy romance has two points of view, so prepare yourself for Axton, the merman warrior and protector of the Queen of Nerida.