Beneath a coral sun lying like every critic ever,
the fisherman rows.
Hands steady. Eyes tracing silver threads of tide.
Counting fish. Counting breaths. Counting the stubborn tyranny of small truths.
She rises.
Scales molten, blazing glass in a world too dull to reflect her.
Voice a carving knife.
Bullet. Hurricane. Unadulterated fury incarnate.
The mermaid speaks in tongues dipped in acid,
in waves of spite,
in sirensong accusations that make gulls reconsider ambition,
clouds reconsider patience,
the ocean reconsider everything it thought it knew.
“Do you see?” she hisses.
“Do you bow? Break? Vanish into irrelevance?”
Every word a boulder.
Every glare a storm.
Every laugh a slingshot obliterating the quiet, pathetic ordinariness of his life.
Weak. Blind. Boring.
A human abacus lost in the poetry of her fury.
Gestures, a Renaissance of uncut hate.
Whims, the epitome of binary rage.
Meteors, comets, shooting stars —
why settle for a puddle when you can incinerate oceans?
Divinity, after all, is sheep’s skin for monsters.
The fisherman pauses.
Nets dripping salt. Mind uncluttered. Heart steady, metronome-perfect.
He tastes the tang of her rage, smells the scorched ocean,
but does not bite. Does not roar.
Storms are for watching. For secret notebooks.
For the quiet laughter that says: “Well, look at this idiot again.”
Days curl. Months coil. Years spiral.
And she continues —
flaming, flailing, fabulous,
a fireworks display of self-worship.
Scales ignite. Voice crescendos. Fury convinced of invincibility.
She pins invisible trophy heads on the walls of her pride-palace,
each insult a chandelier swinging above the moat of arrogance.
For no tide, no fury, no glittering rage can drown a man who rows steady through his own small truths.
Then —
mid-gloat, mid-spectacle of self-admiration,
she lunges into proving him broken.
The fishnet snaps.
Silver threads coil like accusatory fingers of a god.
Scales caught. Claws entangled.
The ocean gasps.
The cathedral of scorn collapses.
The Renaissance of hate becomes a glittering cage.
She spins, screams, recites every insult ever thrown,
trapped in the architecture of her own conceit.
The fisherman rows.
Hands steady. Eyes on horizon. Simple. Human.
Witness to absurdity, rage, and vanity so profound it should be illegal.
The tide resumes its ordinary, unbothered rhythm.
The mermaid —
still glorious, still furious,
thrashes like a failing goddess,
mid-delirious symphony of self-adoration,
caught not by skill, not by cunning,
but by gravity itself: the inexorable weight of vanity.
Glory. Fury. Hubris.
Caught in her own glittering trap.
Insults ricochet. Pride snaps. Scorn entangles.
The ocean whispers dryly:
Some tides you ride. Some tides ride you.
And the fisherman?
Still rowing. Still counting fish. Still alive. Still human.
Still absurdly, impossibly unbothered.
A slow, secret smile curls at the edge of his blemished lips.
Divine burns oceans, melts glaciers.
Mortals row on.
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