the MerMaid and the PornograPher JACQUELINE VOGTMAN
The mermaid is dying, beached on the Malibu shoreline like a spilled bucket of seashells. The pornographer spots her while picking up trash from the all-night party celebrating the release of his S&M flick Citizen Pain, third in his failing series of classic remakes. He drags garbage bags behind him and walks over to investigate the bright lump of flesh, guessing it’s a beached dolphin or seal. He gasps, stops short. Close enough to see the shape clearly, he’s sure it has something to do with the gray light of morning or the milky light of cataracts forming in his eyes, but there she is – a real mermaid. Gorgeous. And naked. Her top half looks as human as the actresses in his movies, only the mermaid’s tits are real, her nipples so pale they’re nearly invisible. Her stomach is smooth, no belly button, her hair long, scalloped waves that flow down over her body and end in a calligraphic spiral, its color the deep indigo of spilled ink. But her bottom half is one long, scaly tail, thick and extending a good five feet from hips to flipper. It’s green, a kind of green the pornographer has never seen in life: glittering, various shades of the color, containing gold and blue and silver, sunset and sea and moonlight. And now sunrise, too. 42
Berkeley Fiction Review
