Netted, by Tracy Royce

The Village of the Mermaids, by Paul Delvaux (Belgium) 1942

Netted
 
Andy thanked the actor, stopping her mid-monologue. As he escorted her to the door, he heard her exhale a little lip trill, as though blowing bubbles. Perhaps she was just as eager as he was to wrap up this audition. He thought how much he would like to escape into the salty afternoon air. 

The bungalow the producer had reserved for auditions was sweltering. No sea breeze inside, just busted air conditioning. Why had Andy worn black in August? Because directors wore black. Because that was his signature, like sleazy B-movies.

And now he’d sunk to directing a mermaid flick. Worse, he was saddled with this producer, a legendary meddler, demanding they hold an open call here at the beach. It was an obvious publicity stunt. The producer had said, “We’re casting a wide net,” and Andy had winced at the pun, but also at the knowledge that they were wasting their time. These women’s time too. The lead in this aquatic travesty would most likely go to one of the producer’s casting couch conquests. And even if a genuine mermaid washed ashore, those imbeciles at the studio would probably find a reason to toss her back.

Standing on the bungalow’s threshold, he surveyed the remaining hopefuls still waiting to be seen and he wondered when these maxi-dresses would finally go out of fashion. All lined up in two tidy rows, the actors appeared not only identical, but vaguely piscine, eyes vacant and bulging. He shuddered. Fish, women, fish-women. 

“All right, folks, listen up: we’re going to take a little break here, so you can all stretch your legs. Don’t worry, we’ll get to everybody today, I promise. We’ll resume in...” How long could he get away with? Ten minutes? Fifteen? He surprised himself by saying, “A half hour.” He expected groans, or perhaps nervous chatter, but as he strode away from the bungalow, the women didn’t stir.

He walked away, the breeze teasing the brim of his hat, and for a moment he wondered whether he should say the hell with it, hop this wall and allow the tide to wash over him, or at least lap at his feet. Maybe he’d be greeted by a school of real mermaids. Sure. He’d be just as likely to encounter his artistic integrity stranded on the sand. Andy trudged along the path, toward distant cliffs. 

Tracy Royce

Tracy Royce is a poet and writer whose words have appeared in / are forthcoming in 100 Word Story, Five Minutes, The Mackinaw, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking in the region’s many mountains, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. You can find her on Bluesky. ​