Blood of the Sea

E. Seneca

The ocean was alive, every drop of it whispering her name with a wet, vicious passion as it seethed over the rocks. The droplets splashing over her feet burned frigid, the salt sticking to her skin. One patch of it struck her arm, and unconsciously she raised it and laved her tongue over the back of her hand, and the taste flooding her mouth was not seawater but blood.

Marina swallowed, her throat itching and her gorge rising. Was it just her imagination, the collective throaty voices emanating from the depths? Her senses had been addled for so long, so very long. But if it was her imagination, then why did she ache when she gazed out at the churning water? Why did the marrow in her bones cry out? Why did the blood sing in her veins?

The crunch of grass behind her shattered her reverie, and she tensed; then the tailwind brought a familiar scent to her flared nostrils, and she relaxed as a familiar arm wound around her waist.

“Marina. I thought you’d be here.”

His savory smell of fresh bread wafted over her, accompanied by the innate human warmth she always seemed to forget, a warmth which chased away the chill saturating her from the sea breeze. 

“Carlo,” she mumbled absently, leaning surreptitiously into the bulk of his body. The fever receded slightly, the illusions fading. It was just the ocean, same as it’d been every day of her life. But the flavor on her tongue remained, sharp and stinging.

“What were you doing, just watching?”

She made a vague noise of assent, wrenching her gaze away from the bulk of the dark water. Instead her eyes landed upon the froth foaming up the rocks, which was only marginally safer. The sight of the straggly grasses pushing up through the cracks, however, reminded her of what she had really come to do. “I’m going to see Grandpa Marcos.”

Although from this angle she could not see Carlo’s face, she felt him frown in the way his arm tightened minutely and in the hitch of his breath. “Again?”

“He is not doing well, Carlo.”

“But . . .” The crashing of the waves filled the silence, and he sighed. “Well, alright. I was looking forward to having lunch with you, but we can have it tomorrow all the same.”

That was enough to make her turn around, and the pale, pale blue of his eyes looked so very washed out, like old gingham, after the frightfully deep teal of the ocean. He smiled, weary but kind. Warmth emanated from his tanned skin and his brown skin and the bag of bread beneath his other arm, a sunshine-like heat she instinctively yearned to lean into, but it was an instinct that her poisoned mind whispered against.

He was warm, in all the human, fleshy forms, but he did not understand. That humanity was like the bun he offered her, hot and fresh in her hands and soft in her mouth, yet carrying within it something alien and uncontrollable: the yeast that gave it life, like the salty fluid coursing through their bodies. But it was not enough to merely possess the seed. With no awareness of its true nature, it was simply a fungus, latent and harmful, like her own ill thoughts which he could not perceive. Who would take her twisted mind and bake her into a lovely bun, soft and golden? Would his heat be enough to cleanse her impurities and bloom them into a thick, fine dough that could be kneaded until it was smooth and flexible, free-formed and free-flowing like the waters?

The roar of the ocean poured into her ears, and she blinked free of her reverie for the second time, looking down at the remaining third of her bun. The white crumb, mangled and fluffy, stared back at her, strands torn and ragged from her teeth. Like seaweed, draggling over the rocks; like human entrails, picked over by birds. She shuddered, and forced herself to shove the rest into her mouth, crunching down on the crust, struggling not to think of cracking bones.

As soon as she swallowed the rough lump of it, she said, “I must go.”

Only reluctantly did he unwind his arm from her waist, and without it, the cold, sticky wind felt stronger, as if it would tear her away from the ground, teasing long strands of her hair out of its braid. “Alright. I’ll come by after work to walk you home.” He folded her fingers around the top of the paper bag. “Take these. Maybe he’ll eat some.”

“Thank you, Carlo.” Standing on her toes, she kissed his cheek, and she couldn’t tell if the salt there was of his own skin or the breeze accumulating on her lips.

•   •   •

Marcos lived in a tiny cottage on an overhang overlooking the ocean, like a dollhouse painted against the swirling mass of clouds on the horizon. To reach it, she could follow the path through the grass or walk along the beach, and it was the latter she chose, though it meant she shivered in the shadow of the cliff to her left and the coldness radiating from its rocky face although it was only about a dozen feet tall. It was worth it to splash through the water and feel the sand squishing between her toes, shoes in one hand and bag of bread in the other.

His door was open for her, as always, and few people came this way anymore, but Marina knocked on the frame regardless as she wiped the sand from her feet. “Grandpa Marcos? It’s me.” They had no actual blood relation, but everyone had always called him grandpa.

His thin, aged voice came from just inside. “In here, my girl.”

She found him folded in his battered overstuffed armchair, about as old as he was, peering at her with blue eyes. A different sort of blue than Carlo’s blue: darker, and despite their watery haze, there was a depth and richness to them that Carlo’s did not have. His wrists and knuckles were swollen with arthritis around the head of his cane, as were his ankles, his bare feet callused where they rested upon a cushion.

Marina dropped to her knees beside him, covering his hand with her own as she kissed his whiskery cheek. “How are you, Grandpa?”

“As well as I can ever be, which is to say, sore but alive.” He mussed her hair and cast an interested eye at her paper bag. “From your beau, then?”

“Yes. Would you like some?”

“It will go well with the fish I got this morning. As soon as this old man can stand, he will help you.”

“I can do it, no need for you to get up. You already went fishing when you should have been resting.”

“I must do something, my sweet. Just a few more minutes. Sit down.”

Reluctantly, she did, taking her customary position on the low stool by the brazier. The faint scent of ash tickled her nose, but as she rubbed it, the smell of yeast flooded her senses—soothing, before it was soured by salt. “Did you catch many fish, then?”

“Enough. That’s all I ask for. Enough for me, and a little for a guest.” He smiled, and she smiled back.

“No guests today but me, however?”

“No, not today. But you are the best of guests.” Then his expression sobered, a hint of anxiety bleeding through his voice. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it. Did you notice the color of the sea? Did you see how thick the breakers? The foam, clinging to the rocks? How much seaweed was on the sand?” 

Slowly Marina nodded. “I did. It was dark, today, even though the sky was clear from my lookout.”

“And the color of the sky?” He gazed at her with a mix of expectancy and concern, as if fearing she would give an incorrect answer.

“Blue,” she replied. “The blue of . . .” Words failed her, and she glanced about his tiny room for some analogy. Eye falling upon a folded blanket on the rack, she added, “Of—of dye, rinsed out in a tub.”

Immediately he relaxed, slumping back into the cushions. “Yes. Rich, yet too light to match the water.”

“Yes.”

Marcos regarded her a moment longer, brow creasing in deep world-weariness as an emotion she could only call sorrow crept into his eyes. She said nothing, waiting, and at length he sighed, eyelids sliding closed. “The sky is mourning,” said he. “Mourning her. I can feel it. It will weep, soon.”

Automatically, Marina looked out the window, observing the thick layers of dark clouds tangling on the horizon. Angry, pained; tinged with blue-black violet, edges tinted vermilion. “A storm?”

“No, worse. Something else.” The head of his cane creaked slightly beneath his hands. “Did you see the fish, on your way? Choking the shore?”

“There were none that I saw.”

“Mmm. You came early. As soon as dusk falls, they start rolling in. They’ve been doing that for the past three days. Out by the village, you can’t see them. The birds have a party at night, and then the bones are gone by dawn if I don’t save them.” He gestured vaguely at the doorway, then opened his eyes and braced himself, slowly heaving himself up. Marina leapt to her feet to support him, his leathery fingers wrapping around her arm and digging into her skin as he rebalanced his weight on his cane. 

“Grandpa—”

“I am well. Come.”

She remained close as he hobbled across the room to the small space comprising his tiny kitchen. A line of fishes had been laid out on the counter, but they did not quite look like any of the fishes brought in by the nets at the village. The scales that ought to shimmer iridescent were dull and cloudy in the shadows of his house as he removed the cloth covering them; their eyes were too bulbous; their mouths too fanged; their fins too long and vividly colored. Her stomach turned over as they were revealed—but not entirely with dread. A hunger for flesh itself triggered water in her mouth, but it was not merely a hunger for any flesh, either. Neither red meat nor white meat would sate this hunger: only the bluish flesh of the very last fish, a thing that gleamed and glittered, patches of semi-translucent scales offering tantalizing glimpses of its organs.

As if drawn on a line, she approached it, hovering her fingers a few inches from its body, nearly expecting to feel a faint warmth still emanating from it despite the fact that it was obviously dead. “I can never catch these,” she mumbled.

“You’re better off not trying to. Get the knives, my girl.”

The knives clicked as she set them down along with the cutting boards. The confession fell out of her mouth, soft as a whisper, sulkier than she wanted and actually felt. “But it’s this one I want, Grandpa. This one is . . . different.”

He made a noncommittal noise, hanging up his cane and picking up a knife to begin skinning. 

The silence grew thick, filled with the wet sound of tearing flesh, of refuse being flung into the pail to be discarded. She cut into the shimmering fish with perhaps more force than strictly necessary, eagerly separating skin from muscle with firm jerks. The smell which wafted up was metallic, edged with the sickening tinge of seawater—and yet it only made her hungrier.

He spoke again, but it was only a neutral, “You shouldn’t eat too much of it.”

Marina glanced at him sideways, moving only her eyes as the knife severed bone and struck the board. “But it was you who gave it to me. You who—” Her teeth clicked together as she forced the sudden words down: You who gave me this curse. You who awakened my tainted blood. You who gave me this hunger.

Marcos did not so much as look up from his work, his voice mild. “Did I? I shared with you my fish. But is it my fault that you are different? Any more than is it my mother’s, rest her poor and miserable soul, fault that I am different? Just because you show someone the truth does not mean their eyes will open, even if it is right in front of them. How many countless residents of your village feed off the bounty of the sea and their eyes have yet to open? Time and again this fish will find itself tangled among the masses—”

“And someone will eat it, and they will understand,” she retorted. “Rare it might be, but—”

“Marina.”

She flinched at his tone, and realized she had been gripping the handle so tightly it ached. Before she did something she regretted, she released it, and swallowed at the slick coating of guts on her fingers, milky-red.

“It is neither my fault nor your own. That you had something within you that responded to it is the fault of no one.”

“Then why—” her voice cracked, “—did you give it to me?”

He did not answer.

A thicker, heavy silence fell over the cottage, filled with only the crashing of the waves beyond the walls and the moaning of the wind seeping into the crevices of the rocks, sighing its melancholy sigh. The churning of the water seemed to mimic the churning of her stomach and her emotions, thoughts beating against the sides of her skull and her heart against her rib cage. A sense of betrayal lingered heavy and ashen at the back of her throat, even as she knew it was inexplicable and groundless. But she’d thought—no, believed—that he understood; that they were the same; that he was the one kindred soul in the world upon whom she could rely. But now she saw that was not the case at all. Despite everything, they were different. Just as always, she was alone with her thoughts.

As she set the knife down, the sharpness of the blade and its potential violence crossed her mind; how easy it would be to pick it up and turn its point onto something which would alleviate her suffering, albeit only momentarily. He did not understand? Then she would make him understand. The cutting board and the cutlets of fish swam before her eyes, blurring into a smear of crimson and silver.

A seagull cried out sharply above the roof of the cottage, shattering her haze with its raucous voice. 

She shuddered, no small part of her appalled at her own warped thoughts. What was wrong with her? Was it the smell of blood, thick in her nostrils? Or was it her own tainted blood, corrupting her thoughts further? How could she even think of doing that to him? Had she lost her mind? Even if the disappointment was still cloying in her mouth, she could not even think of committing such an act. And what good would it do? Nothing. It would not change his mind nor make him understand.

The edges of the room began to spin, long streaks of sunlight mingling confusingly with the colored shadows of the furniture. She reached for a cloth to wipe her hands off, and Marcos’s fingers, slimy with blood, closed around her wrist.

“Go sit down, Marina.”

She didn’t want to sit down. She didn’t know what she wanted, but she knew that she didn’t want to merely pretend that nothing had happened. She wanted perhaps to scream, or cry, but she remained silent, voice choked in her throat. His fingers tightened, then released, and she washed her hands with stiff movements, returning to her position on the stool where she could use the rattle of the coals she stoked in the brazier to conceal her heavy, uneven breathing. How could he acknowledge that the thing which even now she craved had a certain effect upon people, and yet claim it was no one’s fault? Had he not fed it to her knowingly? Had he not shared it with her having full awareness of what it would do to her?

The fire snarled to life, its heat triggering goosebumps prickling over her skin as she opened the paper bag. The smell of soot mingled with the scent of fresh bread, rich and earthy and human, unlike how clawed her fingers looked as she broke the buns in half to place them upon one corner of the grille, letting them warm once more.

Marcos laid the skewered fish in careful rows, then eased heavily back into his chair. She watched as the damp flesh slowly began to darken, sizzling above the flames, and wondered how the fish would taste if she whisked them off early and popped them into her mouth still burning-hot. Would the pain be bearable? Would they be deliciously slippery coursing down her throat? Would the warmth saturating them be mistakable for the warmth of something yet living? And would that one—that one with the draggling tendrils like a jellyfish and the hazy flesh—taste better raw? She inhaled the rising aroma before it was whisked up the chimney, and felt the hunger flooding up into her very lungs. How much longer until they were done? How much longer until she could soothe her clamorous insides?

“Turn them over,” said Marcos, and she obeyed. The dark, cooked sides were strangely less appealing than the soft, raw sides, and it was the strangeness of this thought that brought her dark feelings back into focus.

She cast him a glance out of the corner of her eye, but his expression had not changed, as if he had said nothing wrong. But surely he was aware he had upset her? Or had it been her mistake to interject with that outburst? It was already said and done, but if it was for her to apologize, then she wasn’t sure she would.

The silence continued until he bade her remove the fish from the fire, and mutely she passed him his portion first before taking her own, holding the hot skewers gingerly and probing the meat with her tongue to test the temperature. No sooner was it bearable than did she bite down, unable to wait any longer, and despite the slight coating of char, the juices bursting against her palate soothed some inner beast, and she shuddered, biting back a whimper.

“I am sorry, Marina.”

She looked up, bits of fish stuck between her teeth like a ravenous animal, and furrowed her brow. Now he was apologizing? She continued chewing, then swallowed and stared, waiting.

“I did not know for sure what the fish would do until you ate it. But . . . you were attracted to it like nothing else. Like you knew at first sight that it was meant for you. And I think it was.”

But she didn’t want to be chosen, not for this; she didn’t want to be a freak of nature. And could she really trust his words on this when her own recollection of the event was so foggy? She only remembered the plate, full of steaming fish, and that single, solitary morsel that so caught her attention: white and gleaming with a rainbow sheen, the jagged flayed edges and the attached tendrils curled up from the heat, looking impossibly tasty. She didn’t think he’d particularly pushed that one towards her, but nevertheless she recalled the immediate attraction, reaching out her tiny hand and snatching it up before the other children could claim it first, but they’d barely seemed to notice it.

She’d gobbled it down with that same haste, lest it be taken from her, and it had tasted absolutely divine; but it had been over all too soon, dreadfully soon, like a bright firework exploding in her mouth. For but a moment, all of her senses had been set alight with that sinful ambrosia, and then it had settled in her stomach, its warmth fading into but a bittersweet memory, its wondrous flavor disappearing into the taste of regret that she had not savored it.

At the time she’d felt nothing, noticing only dimly that the sunlight seemed a little brighter, refracting a halo of colors over the damp platter, but nothing more. Nothing until later, as if it had grown with her.

But she would never know, now, if he had mixed it in with the other fish intentionally; if she had been his experiment, or if it had been an accident. It was too late. She had partaken, and would remain forever changed by it. Even if this latent madness had always lurked within her, perhaps it would have carried on dormant for some time longer.

Marina swallowed again and picked a thin bone out of her teeth. The taste in her mouth was thick and cloying, sticking to her gums, but it was still delicious. Delicately she set the bone down and considered what she could say. The apology was more than she’d expected to hear, though the tumult of emotions welling inside did not especially subside. But still. There was one thing that she had to be sure of first.

“Do you . . . understand, then?” She couldn’t explain it further than that. The words to describe the clawing hunger and its animal tendrils leaching into her veins and the call of the sea murmuring beyond the window—these were not words she had with no preparation, and perhaps would never have even after consideration. It was a nameless thing, just as nameless as the siren song of the winds, the whisper of the grass, the trill of the rising sun.

Marcos raised a wry eyebrow. “I’m eating it too, aren’t I?”

She glanced down for the first time, noticing that he, too, had taken a portion of the slippery fish for himself. His fingers gripped the skewer tight, tendons bulging in his knuckles and fingers, although it certainly had to be painful. A pain which mattered less than the craving.

A fresh ray of sunlight poured into the room, bringing the coils of lingering smoke above the brazier into focus. The cold feeling that had suffused her faded, replaced instead by the burn of shame. Was she halfway to transforming into a beast, with these manners and assumptions? How could she have doubted him so? Would she be sitting here, sharing a meal with him, if the bond between them had been based upon false premises from the very beginning?

Cheeks flaming, she lowered her gaze. The ache still lingered at the idea that he had used her to determine the truth about the semi-translucent fish, and a mere apology would not undo this curse. But there was no cure for it. She simply had to continue accepting it as a fact of her life. But having an understanding within another person made it bearable. That alone would give her the strength to carry on for a little while longer.

“I—I apologize, Grandpa,” she mumbled out, willing her eyes to cease prickling.

The old affection colored his voice as he settled back; as he said, “Eat, my dear.”

But what he had that she did not, even after all these long years, was restraint. As she tore another mouthful free, it took all of her willpower not to fall upon it like a starved animal, and try as she might, she could not maintain it on her tongue for longer than a few seconds. The slightly slimy texture that ought to have been revolting instead sent delightful shudders down her spine; the sweetish, tangy flavor was tinged with a hint of something that defied explanation—something she could only call unearthly. It was seawater, but solid; seaweed, but meaty; the richness of fresh meat, but curdled with an edge of rot, and it was precisely that skein of rot that sent the water flooding to her mouth.

Marina swallowed the bite and exhaled, heart thudding feverish and rapid in her chest. She was a stranger in her own body, her pulse thundering and her fingertips tingling. Part of her yet rebelled against this happening, demanding a normal fare, demanding the bread and the familiarity of the wheat and leavening, something to ground her. But the thought of placing the toasted fibers upon her tongue after the richness of the fish was nothing short of repulsive.

A vision of the future danced behind her eyelids: hoarding these precious fishes like treasures; pushing Carlo’s bags of bread into his chest, unable to stand the taste of dough; a look of betrayal in his kind eyes slowly morphing into hatred as whispers spread that she was no longer one of them, the simple people of the village; building herself a tiny cottage like the one in which she currently sat, where she could sail the waves to the places she could find the fishes until they composed her entire diet. What then? Would fangs grow out of her gums; would claws sprout from her fingers; would scales bloom over her skin?

Her mouth itched at the thought, and she shivered, the alien thoughts rattling about in her skull. As she looked down at the skewered meat, she knew deep down that it would be wisest not to eat any more. But as the smell of rot filled her nostrils, her wavering hesitation evaporated and she could no more resist leaning down and ripping another bite than she could cease breathing.

•   •   •

It was not quite dusk when the crunch of footsteps beyond the cottage sounded and Marina was compelled to unfold from her stool and rise. The edges of her vision spun slightly, but it faded as she regained her footing. Long rays of orange light bled out from the horizon, tinged with fiery crimson as they seeped into the tangle of clouds crouched there, flushing them with a hint of violet. She only faintly heard the murmur of stiff, polite conversation between Carlo and Marcos, and the hand Carlo rested on her arm was unpleasantly warm and damp as he drew her away.

In the doorway, her gaze met with Grandpa Marcos, but in the blue of his eyes, she saw nothing but a fragment of the ocean, swimming with shadows.

The roar of the waves was deafening as they stepped outside, and Marina leaned on Carlo as they walked, her shoes dangling from her other hand. He tried to guide her towards the higher path across the straggly grasses, but she made for the low path along the shore, pulling against his resistance until they reached the sand. Something in the lukewarm water washing over her feet was soothing, the spume tickling her ankles, though the sinking sun stung her eyes as she looked out across the ocean to where it approached its bed.

For a moment, there was no hint of blue, the vast expanse of the sea tinted the color of flame, a tossing reflection of the sky forming an infinity of fire. But the wind snapping against her cheeks was cold, and as its whisper began to pluck at her veins, that sound reverberated in the space between her bones and slurped out her insides until she felt very, very hollow and light as a feather, with only the warm, fleshy arm of the man beside her to hold her down. She stared at the spot where the sun was veiled by clouds and its starburst of light bathed the earth, its heat unable to penetrate her skin, and in the face of its blazing majesty and gilded blanket, all she could feel was a deep sorrow. Her eyes felt as heavy as the clouds, prickling with the salt she could taste on her lips, and as golden as the sky had become, it was taut with a tension she felt in the goosebumps proliferating over her skin, the sharp, bitter smell in the air heralding rain. Marcos was right: a storm was coming, and soon.

“Marina? You’re shivering, but it’s not cold . . .”

With a shudder, she turned away from the ocean, suppressing the impulse to pull away from him and wade into the shallows. It was all so clear and fresh, yet the only thing she felt was rot, welling up from deep inside her.

•   •   •

Marina awoke in the dead of night, her ears ringing violently. She sat up, and the sigh of the ocean sounded human in its richness. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she jerked the curtain aside, and her heart skipped a beat as she saw the sky lit up by an eerie orange glow. The slosh of her blood in her arteries mimicked the rhythm of the tide, and she did not bother with the door, simply pushed the window panes open and vaulted out into the night.

The dirt was cold beneath her bare feet, the village silent with all good souls safe in their beds, Marina trotting alone through the street and out into the scrub, breaking into a run towards her favorite vantage point heedless of the rocks digging into her feet. The wind buffeted her as she climbed the slippery slope, stopping only when she reached the apex, wheezing for breath with an inexplicable haste.

But as she lifted her head, her confusion fell away, replaced by a wonder that was as uneasy as it was vast, for the sky was indeed mourning. In the moonless night, flaming chunks of rock shredded the clouds to wisps, lighting the darkness as they plummeted towards the ocean, their brilliance extinguished as they met the sea and threw a fine mist into the air that flecked her lips with the taste of ash. And where they fell, the water began to boil and froth with a crimson foam, a myriad of tiny flames writhing around deep pits opening in their wake. A dull roar filled the air as the water poured in, and a great gust billowed forth, forcing her to her knees, but her stinging eyes remained riveted on the tumbling meteors and the widening of the pits, her wonder replaced by swelling dread—and a curious, wistful yearning, as if something she knew intimately resided at the bottom.

Just as suddenly, the wind changed, and even beneath the sparse starlight, the waters darkened into red, thick clouds of what looked like krill billowing out, accompanied by the fetid, unmistakable stench of rotting meat. Involuntarily, Marina inhaled a lungful and nearly gagged, then the instinctive revulsion dissipated and saliva flooded her mouth—for she knew this scent, and knew it well. Her teeth ground against each other as she struggled to raise her head against the gust even as she feared what she would see.

Buoyed off the coast was a vast body, bloated and pale and pockmarked, its edges disintegrating. She took it at first for a whale, but something in its skin was distinctly wrong: too thick and covered in patches of scales. But it was no fish when it had to be miles long, and the ends were red and ragged as if it had been torn off of something even larger, a thought that was downright terrifying. She watched as it drifted amid the meteors, slowly turning over, and glimpsed movement from beneath, a few glimmering semi-translucent fishes diving away from the body, sending a claw of hunger through her.

Then the body rolled over, and her blood ran cold. It was no whale: it was a neck, and half of a face, enormous and alien. Studded with a half-dozen staring, half-eaten eyes, its visage was edged with fins and covered in thousands of blisters, or perhaps they were eggs. It had no mouth, nothing but a lolling, proboscis-like tongue spilling forth from a hole, and from that crater exited more of those delectable fishes. Some terrible wound or impact had severed its head, and the visible flesh there was red and honeycombed, distorted with long, oozing tendrils. Wet chunks slowly broke off into the water, and the semi-sphere of its head had to be at least twice the size of the village or more. Were the body intact, surely it would be large enough to embrace the whole coastline.

But as thoroughly, hideously dead as it looked, she could swear that those eyes saw her. They skewered her in place, pinning her to that rocky crag as they sliced through her flesh and pierced her very soul.

Even worse, something within her resonated. The constant pull she’d felt came stronger than ever, the body of the alien calling out to her like they were one and the same. Strange visions danced in her mind as the awareness of her extremities faded: the dazzling brilliance of a sea of stars, shimmering beneath her as she soared at an impossible speed with the smoky kiss of darkness on her lips; plummeting, down, down, and water exploding around her, invading her, hungrily consuming her; consuming it in turn, each gallon becoming a part of herself—an extension of herself, consciousness unfurling to a fragmented vastness like the facets of a jewel.

The ocean sighed, sweet and soft, and Marina swayed beneath the wind, breathing the sickly scent of death. She had partaken of its flesh; now they shared it. If she threw herself into the water and swam out—would it accept her? How much longer would it remain? The fiery tears of the sky had called it forth, as if just for her. What other choice did she have? How could she ever return to the village with the knowledge that this being slept beneath the waves, that the fruits of the sea she so craved originated from its body? And it had been calling her name for so very, very long; who was she to refuse it?

Marina struggled to her feet, tasting the wind, and she could swear in the flickering meteor-light that the eyes shone with life, beckoning her. For a moment she stood on the precipice, utterly alone in the night—but not for much longer.

She leapt, and the ocean embraced her like an old lover.

E. Seneca is a freelance speculative fiction author of horror and dark fantasy. Some of her works include “Harvesters” and “Cecilia” published in Grimmer & Grimmer Books’ anthologies DeadSteam and DeadSteam II; “It Lives in the Mineshaft,” “A Specific Sort of Shared Madness,” and “Haunt Me Like A Memory,” published by Soteira Press in their Monsters We Forgot anthology series; “Glut” published by Sliced Up Press in their Slashertorte anthology; and “The Shadow Beneath the Water,” published in Belanger Books’ Sherlock Holmes & The Occult Detectives IV. She has written original fiction since 2008 and can be found on Twitter @esenecaauthor.

“Blood of the Sea” by E. Seneca © 2023