yachiru

In winter we hunt mermaids. As our fathers and our father's fathers have done, passing along their secret hunting grounds like an echo of genetic memory.

I wonder that the same isn't so for the creatures we hunt. Instinct alone should have guided them to better hibernating locations yet daughter after daughter is born, only to die inside their winter homes.

Perhaps something inside each is a cruel spirit, each whispers to each; safe here, safe here.

I know their hearts are tough. Usually the dogs won't even eat them. I know which parts are tender and which are bitter. I know how to crack bones for soup and how delicately sharp the knife must be to remove the scales without damaging them.

My daughter makes necklaces, sells them to tourists.

Look at how beautiful, my daughter tells them. Don't you want to be beautiful too?