Pisces

The song said that fish spend their entire lives swimming against the current, searching for a hook to cling to in order to see the sunbeam. She found it. Or perhaps it was the hook that found her.

Spit out by the high tide, her skin is pale marble where life has grown cold for hours. Her tail barely retains its former glory: fading glimmers of a once-intense garnet, blue and pink iridescence withering quickly. Her blood, so red, so human, stains the foam that crashes against her, trying to carry her away, but it is too late.

A seagull pecks at the soft flesh. Another arrives, flying in. Soon there will be many.

The emeralds go dark. And with them, all the beauty they once looked upon.