The Last Mermaid

~ 46 ~

There was once a woman known by all men. She never aged. Such women were said to be rare wonders of millennia to inspire artists to come. 

Another weird thing about her, she never died. She could endure extreme periods of hunger, pain, cold, heat, and isolation. 

She hardly wore any clothes, just a light dress that would change appearance to the environment where she is. 

If you saw her in the mountains, you would say that she belonged there. If you saw her past the caverns of magma, you would say that she crawled out of it and dyed the dress in the colors.

One day, her dress turned green and littered with florals. She walked down the country road, when she noticed a girl running behind her. 

"I want to be like you" says the farmgirl.

The gypsy only laughs in reply.

"And why ever would that be?"

"You're free. You never age. You can survive anything - just look how strong you are! You are really pretty, and you don't care about what anyone thinks!"

"It's harder than it looks" says the gypsy, "I'm not all that I appear."

"Other women and society expect you to conform. You're not like that."

The gypsy simply shrugs. 

"I can take you along my roads if you like. The only problem is - you may not find the way back."

"I don't care!" proudly announces the farmgirl. 

"Very well" replies the gypsy, giving her a beautiful pink gown of flowers. 

...

They walk along the roads now, heading towards the snow-capped mountains. Looking above, she can see what appears to be angels overhead, but on further inspection, are air nymphs of ethereal, transparent beautify. One of them flies down to talk to the gypsy. 

"How many of them are coming?"

"Only a few" says the air nymph. "But your usual regulars are here."

She motions to the farmgirl. 

"I'm sure she'll be fine" says the air nymph. "After all, she's got huge breasts."

The farmgirl blushes in response to this. 

They enter a party in full swing. There are dancers to the side, evocatively swaying their hips in scantily-clad clothes. There are men gambling at bars - playing with cards, rolling dice, and singing songs. 

"Where are we? I've never seen anything like this before."

"This is a world between worlds - a land of dreams. Men come to bars like these in loneliness to play out their fantasies, while we provide the service of inspiring them."

The farmgirl turns to the right, inspired by the wistful, sad music. She sees girls in silver, star-studded tutus that delicately lift, twirl, and contort their feet. The gypsy calls them 'ballerinas.'

"When men want to be inspired, they very often don't know what it is that they want" says the gypsy, as we move onto another room where men sit around, watching a 'teacher' figure tell stories to kids. "That's why, as imaginary muses, we have the freedom to be as sexual-nonsexual, dreamy-practical, mothering-childlike, as we like. The men who come here have no quarrel with any of these ways that we choose to express ourselves because, come morning, they won't remember anything. We create art - whether by reminding men of their emotional repression, or empowering men through it. Our act changes over time..." the gypsy stops talking, bemused expression on her face at the farmgirl's exposed, milky-white gorge of a breast. 

"Well... is this the image you want of yourself? It can be very hard to stop once you've started."

"I just feel this intense urge to feed..."

She grabs the man nearest to her, caressing his head to her breast. His eyes widen in response, but the farmgirl merely coos him on. It gives her intense sexual pressure that rises through the redness flushing her cheeks. From these encounters - a plate of food emerges for the ones waiting, while they can stare at her half-naked, pregnant form; the dribble of milk that spills down her shapely, exposed breast. 

Sexual tension isn't something the gypsy still contains - instead it's something she ignores. She remembers the days she used to throw herself at men, before she learned that it didn't have to be this way. 

"You are not a prostitute" another woman said quite readily to her, a woman now long gone. 

There's been some men she's found feelings for - and yes, there was one she fell in love with. He's a male muse playing the lyre, singing songs of the Celtic days of old. Nobody really remembers how they became a muse - they just one day find themselves following an interesting person down the road, wondering what it is about them that they can cultivate within themselves. That person will then ask them if they want to throw their life away.

She's walked many a mountain by herself - wandering up the lone paths vacant of life and echoing of sounds. She's seen day turn to night  - watching the stars come out, wishing those mountains that appear as overbearing kings would envelop her and him into a sky palace. There - they would never ave to answer to anyone's creative longings. There, they would exist in peace and comfort. There, she would tell him how all his songs peak to the loneliness she's felt for a near millennia. 

Until then, she dances "The Red Flame."