Mermaid Fantasy

por Bill Tiepelman

A Moment Between Waves

The Ledge Between Two Worlds Beneath a sea that never stayed still and a sky that never quite forgot her name, there lay a ledge — weathered by tide, forgotten by time — where the mermaid came to sit. She wasn’t one of those syrupy songbirds from surface myths, the kind sailors scribbled into rum-soaked journals. No. This one was real, and when she moved, the water adjusted its entire attitude to accommodate her elegance. She called herself Mirielle, but only when she felt like talking. Which wasn’t often. And certainly not to sea gulls, dolphins, or washed-up poets. Her voice was not meant for crowds or conquests. It was the kind of voice used once, echoed forever, and then put away like velvet you only dare touch with clean hands. She sat now in that between-time just after the sun lost its bite but before it surrendered to the moon — her tail curled over the stone’s edge, scales twinkling in metallic defiance of twilight. Her bralette, made of seagrass embroidery and pearls that had never been owned, shimmered like something stolen from a queen's dream. And that hair... gods help you if you tried to describe it. Not gold, not blonde, not light — just sunlight caught in a net, cascading like slow honey and smelling faintly of brine and lavender. Every evening, she came here to not quite think. To not quite remember. It was dangerous, you see, for a siren to remember too much. The sea takes as easily as it gives, and nostalgia is a luxury for those who don’t bleed salt. Still, tonight felt different. The air buzzed faintly with knowing. Not prophecy — she hated prophecy, too dramatic. No, this was the hum of a whisper trying to happen. The kind of magic that only showed up when you weren’t trying to impress it. A flirtatious breeze teased the edge of her ear, and she rolled her eyes at it with mock offense. “Charming,” she muttered, brushing back a loose curl. “You must be new here.” The sea rippled in answer — not quite applause, not quite warning. Behind her, the first star blinked open. Below her, something stirred. And for the first time in a century, Mirielle did not immediately look away. The Something Below It wasn’t often that Mirielle let herself feel curious. Curiosity was a luxury of things with feet and clocks and furniture. The sea — her mother, cradle, and sometimes jailor — didn’t lend itself to the kind of questions that got satisfying answers. Ask it where something went, and it would burble. Ask it why, and it would rise into a storm. Ask it for love, and it would give you pearls shaped like regrets. But that ripple below her… that stirring. It wasn’t typical. And she knew typical. She’d made a very intentional study of it over the past few decades, lounging on this same slab of stone and watching the surface world through half-lidded lashes. Mermaids weren’t known for their patience — not the old blood like hers — but Mirielle had a particular fondness for ignoring expectations. It was her second-favorite pastime, right behind grooming barnacles off her tail with a gold comb stolen from a pirate who’d called her “little lady.” (He didn’t need it after that.) She leaned forward now, chest lifting as her weight shifted, and her hair followed like a faithful silk banner. The sea below remained hush-hush, coy as ever, but the tension in the water tickled her skin with electricity. Something was waiting. Not watching — no, that was too simple. This was the type of presence that rearranged molecules by being. Not predatory, not friendly. Just… significant. And then she heard it. Not with ears, not exactly. It was a vibration that filtered through the marrow. A soundless sound, like a memory of music that had never been played. Her breath hitched, and she sat upright, tail curling with a flick of uncertainty. For a creature so used to control — of currents, of moods, of men — this little hiccup of vulnerability felt oddly thrilling. She didn’t dive. Not right away. She stood instead. Her upper body graceful and languid, her tail flaring out like a crescent moon dipped in abalone and stardust. The ledge was narrow, and the moment more so. If she moved, it would pass. If she hesitated, it would deepen. “Well,” she said, adjusting one of her earrings — an unnecessary gesture, but fashion demanded presence. “If you’re going to lurk dramatically, at least offer a girl a drink.” Something below chuckled. Not a voice. A chuckle. It rose up through the kelp beds like a bubble of mirth and mischief. Mirielle's brow arched, and she allowed a smile to slip, sharp as a tidepool oyster. "Ah. One of those." She rolled her shoulders, releasing sea dust in glimmers that caught the dying light. "I should’ve worn the sapphires." The chuckle became motion. A spiral in the water. A glimmer of gold... no, copper... no, something elemental. It coiled upward with the intention of being seen. Mirielle held her ground, tail sweeping behind her like a royal train. Her fingers twitched slightly — not from fear, but from the forgotten excitement of newness. This wasn’t a passing dolphin with too much flirt. This wasn’t an overly enchanted kelpie with boundary issues. This was Other. And he was surfacing. As the head broke the surface, she blinked — not in surprise, but in appraisal. Her kind didn’t gasp. Gasping was for damsels and fools. But what rose before her was... let’s say… “aesthetically inconvenient.” He wasn’t beautiful in the way mortals write sonnets about. Not the sharp-cheeked, velvet-voiced prince of tired legends. No, this one was carved from storm wood and low thunder. Hair like burnt kelp twisted into a crown of sea-glass. Skin dark like basalt, dappled with phosphorescent scars that whispered history. And eyes — oh gods — eyes like green lightning stalled mid-storm. He didn't speak. Not yet. Just looked. And Mirielle felt a part of herself stretch in recognition — the old part, the part that predated languages, the part that had once sung ships into ruin and then wept when no one remembered the song. Finally, he broke the surface fully, his tail only hinted at — long, shadow-dark, edged with fins so fine they might’ve been memories. He bowed, not deeply, but with that maddening, impossible kind of charm that you’d slap if it weren’t so magnetic. "Evening," he said, his voice rough like coral but warm, as if apology and desire were sipping wine together behind his teeth. "Do you always rehearse your wit aloud, or was I just lucky tonight?" Mirielle smirked, tilting her head as her curls floated with studied grace. "You think this is wit?" she said. "Darling, I’m still in warm-up mode. Stick around, and I might actually flirt." His grin was all tide and trouble. "Good," he said. "I have nowhere else to be. You?" Mirielle turned back toward the ledge, then to the sea, then to him. Her tail flicked, iridescent and electric. She could’ve swum away. She often did. But tonight? No. Tonight the waves were still, and the moment held its breath. She slipped into the water like a secret too delicious to keep. Tides That Speak in Silence The sea, when it chooses, can become a cathedral. And on this night, as two currents merged beneath the moonlight, it became a sanctuary for things unspoken. Mirielle slipped beneath the surface with the ease of ritual, of muscle memory, of a soul too familiar with solitude to ever truly sink. Beside her, the stranger matched her glide — a little too well. No awkward splash. No giddy swirl. Just the elegant presence of something old that remembered how to move like music. They didn’t speak at first. Not with words. But their bodies wrote stories in ripples — dancing through pockets of warmer water, flirting in eddies that spun slow and sensuous. The reef below caught glimmers of their passing, the coral sighing as if it had waited long for such a ballet. And above them, the waves forgot to crest. The ocean held its hush. It was Mirielle who broke the quiet, eventually. With her, silence was never passive — it was curated. And she was done curating. “So,” she said, circling him like a cat considering a nap in your lap. “Are you cursed, enchanted, running from a prophecy, or just tragically misunderstood?” He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Option five.” “There isn’t an option five.” “There is now.” He flicked his tail, and she felt the tug of his current brush hers. “I’m just here. That’s all. Just… here.” Mirielle narrowed her eyes. “People don’t just ‘be’ here. This reef? It’s... personal.” “Maybe I’m personal too,” he said, his voice smooth as pearl, with an undertow that tugged at her in ways she didn’t like admitting. “Or maybe you’ve been waiting for me.” She scoffed — a delicate, musical scoff, but a scoff nonetheless. “I don’t wait. I haunt.” And that made him laugh — a proper, belly-deep laugh that made a school of neon fish scatter in shock. “Gods. You’re worse than they said.” That caught her off-guard. “Who’s they?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swam deeper, into a trench where the light shimmered like champagne through a blown-glass flute. She followed — irritated, intrigued. The trench opened into a cave-mouth she’d never seen before, its walls slick with black coral and humming with old magic. Not the kind that shimmered. The kind that pulsed. “They,” he said at last, “are the ones who remember the names even when the surface forgets the songs. They said there was a woman here — a mermaid, yes — but more than that. A keeper of stories too painful to write down. A girl made of silence and skin and sunlight who never asks for anything... but always knows when you owe her.” Mirielle stilled. The water grew still with her. “And what do you think?” she asked. He turned slowly in the blue-dark of the cave. Glints of gold dust swirled around him like the echo of a sunbeam. “I think,” he said, “that maybe I’m here to give something. And maybe you’re finally ready to take it.” Her laugh was quieter now. “Bold of you. Assuming I want anything from anyone.” “No,” he said. “Not anyone. Just me.” She swam closer, not realizing she was doing it. She could smell him now — like petrichor and brine and something ancient. Her hand rose, and so did his. Fingers met. No sparks. No lightning. Just the warmth of shared loneliness. “You’re late,” she said. “I’m not,” he said, leaning in with a smile that made even the shadows lean closer. “You were just early.” And when they kissed — because of course they kissed — the ocean turned inward to listen. It wasn’t a desperate, tangled kiss of stories needing endings. No, this was slow. Whimsical. Soft around the edges like a melody hummed through seagrass. It wasn’t a promise. It was a beginning. A yes that didn’t need to be said out loud. Later, they floated in the shallows, tails draped like tapestries. His arm rested behind her head as if he’d always meant to place it there. She traced lazy circles in the water with a single fin. “You know,” she said, voice like velvet dipped in sarcasm, “this doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being difficult.” “Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replied, eyes half-lidded in bliss. “I hate easy.” A silence passed — not the awkward kind. The full kind. The kind that stretched itself out like a well-fed cat and soaked in the moonlight. She looked at him. “Stay.” He didn’t answer with words. He just didn’t leave.     Bring a Moment of Magic Into Your World Inspired by the serene beauty and mysterious grace of our story, A Moment Between Waves is now available as a selection of high-quality photographic art products from Unfocussed.com. Whether you’re gifting a fellow dreamer or treating yourself to something enchanting, these items are designed to bring the magic home. Wall Tapestry – Let your walls breathe with oceanic elegance. This tapestry turns any room into a storybook shoreline. Greeting Card – Share a message wrapped in myth. Perfect for birthdays, soul notes, or “just because” enchantments. Framed Art Print – Showcase the story’s essence with a stunning, gallery-quality print that brings ethereal charm to any wall. Beach Towel – Make your next shore visit a siren's dream with this lush, full-color towel that’s as practical as it is poetic. Explore the full A Moment Between Waves collection and let the magic drift into your everyday.

por Bill Tiepelman

Soliloquio de la sirena

En un reino donde los rayos del sol se filtraban a través de las profundidades del océano, proyectando un caleidoscopio de luz sobre el fondo marino, la sirena Azura encontró consuelo en el corazón de su reino submarino. Cada día, cuando caía el anochecer y el agua se convertía en un lienzo pintado con tonos crepusculares, Azura se sentaba sobre un trono de coral, sus escamas reflejaban la última luz del día. Las criaturas marinas se reunían, atraídas no por el deber sino por el amor, para escuchar el soliloquio de Azura, una tradición tan antigua como las mareas. Con una voz que rivalizaba con la de los serafines, cantaba sobre las maravillas y los secretos del océano. Sus palabras fueron como perlas, cada una llena de sabiduría y de la historia de las profundidades. Las canciones de Azura hablaban de amor y pérdida, de barcos hundidos reclamados por el mar, del reflejo de las estrellas en las tranquilas aguas de la noche. Con cada nota, hablaba de su parentesco con la luna, cuya atracción guiaba las olas y agitaba las mareas de su corazón. Mientras cantaba, el mar mismo parecía escuchar, las olas silenciaban su implacable persecución por un momento. Incluso las tempestades se detendrían en el borde de sus dominios, y su furia sería acallada por la melodía que navegaba sobre las corrientes. Pero una noche, mientras una tormenta azotaba el cielo, la voz de Azura se quebró. El mar sintió su inquietud y, por primera vez, su audiencia acuática contempló un rastro de lágrima que recorría su mejilla, cuyo brillo plateado se perdía en la extensión de su mundo. Fue entonces cuando reveló su anhelo por algo desconocido, un anhelo por un reino más allá del suyo: una conexión con la tierra que respiraba por encima de las mareas. Más allá del alcance del mundo de Azura, donde el océano besaba la tierra, existían historias del lamento de la sirena, una melodía tan conmovedora que incluso los vientos susurraban su belleza a quienes caminaban por las costas. Fue en una de esas noches que un vagabundo solitario, un pintor conocido por capturar la esencia del mar, se encontraba al borde del acantilado, con el alma tan tempestuosa como las olas que había debajo. Cuando la tormenta amainó y los ojos del pintor buscaron el horizonte, la canción de Azura lo encontró. Las notas se entretejieron a través de la espuma del mar y la sal, un hilo invisible tirando de las costuras de su realidad. El pintor, fascinado, comenzó a recrear la melodía en su lienzo, sus pinceladas tan fluidas como las olas, sus colores un eco de las escamas de la sirena. Los días se convirtieron en noches y las noches en semanas, mientras Azura continuaba compartiendo su soliloquio con el mar, sin darse cuenta del pintor que capturó su espíritu desde lejos. Su voz cerró la brecha entre su mundo y el de él, el lamento en su canción se hizo más profundo con cada luna que pasaba. Era la noche de luna llena cuando el cambio brillaba en las aguas. La canción de Azura tenía un timbre diferente, una nota esperanzadora que bailaba con la luz plateada. A medida que la marea subió, la llevó más cerca de la superficie de lo que jamás se había atrevido a aventurar antes. Arriba, el pintor esperaba, como lo había hecho cada atardecer, pero esta vez, con un lienzo que retrataba no el mar, sino la sirena de las profundidades, con los ojos cerrados en serena entrega. Y cuando su cabeza asomó a la superficie, sus ojos se encontraron con la visión de su propia esencia en el lienzo, un espejo de su alma. La sirena y el pintor, separados por la forma pero unidos por el arte, encontraron un entendimiento silencioso. En los días siguientes, la playa se convirtió en un santuario donde dos mundos se encontraban: un lugar donde Azura podía satisfacer su curiosidad por los misterios de la tierra y donde el pintor encontró su musa en la carne, o mejor dicho, en la balanza. Su vínculo se profundizó, no a través de palabras, porque no las necesitaban. Su comunicación fue en el silencio, en el intercambio de arte y canto, una conversación entre mar y orilla. El soliloquio de la sirena evolucionó con el tiempo y dejó de ser un lamento para convertirse en un himno de unidad y descubrimiento. Y para quienes escuchaban, el mar ya no cantaba de anhelo sino de una armonía entre dos mundos, una vez distantes, ahora lo suficientemente cercanos como para tocarlos. En la armonía de su comprensión silenciosa, los susurros del océano transmitían una nueva historia, la historia de una sirena cuya voz movía no sólo las mareas, sino también el corazón de alguien que capturó su mundo en colores y líneas. Y a cambio, inspiró una sinfonía de color que resonaba con las profundidades de las que provenía, un testimonio del poder de los hilos invisibles que tejen el tapiz de las conexiones más profundas de la vida. ...Y así, la historia de Azura y el pintor se convirtió en una para siempre, una sinfonía de tierra y mar, arte y música. El pintor, con su don, trajo la esencia de Azura al mundo de la superficie, traduciendo su ballet acuático en formas que los habitantes de la tierra podrían adorar. Aquellos que escucharon la historia a menudo visitaban unfocussed.com , en busca de un pedazo de magia para llevarse a casa. Las pegatinas del "Soliloquio de la Sirena" se convirtieron en tesoros que adornaban las pertenencias de aquellos que deseaban llevar consigo un fragmento del mundo de Azura a dondequiera que fueran. Cada pegatina sirvió como un susurro tangible del mar, un recordatorio de la profunda y resonante historia de la sirena. Para aquellos que deseaban un lienzo más grande para capturar la inmensidad del océano, los carteles del "Soliloquio de la sirena" ofrecían una ventana al alma de Azura. Con cada cartel colgado, su historia se desarrollaba en los hogares, trayendo consigo la gracia serena del azul profundo. Los carteles invitan a los espectadores a sumergirse en un mundo donde la esencia de las profundidades del océano y la belleza de sus habitantes se capturan en una narrativa visual única e impresionante.