Insanitary

Danika Dinsmore

Tourists blocked the entrance to the caves. I’d known they would come, eventually. You can’t keep a thing like this silent in the information age. Downdee, population 1,320, home of the Singing Caves™.

They were told ghosts of mermaids and embraced that tale. Course we of Downdee know the truth: mermaids are horrible singers. No, it’s the caves themselves that sing. It’s a matter of the earth and wind and sea and little holes no wider than a pinkie. But sure, mermaid ghosts.

We’d been kept to ourselves on the edge of the world. No one had ever stopped by on the way anywhere other than to throw themselves into the sea. But thanks to that young turd that thinks it’s a pop star . . . well, he’d come back and “sampled” the caves and put it to music. Called it his hometown mermaid backup. Rolling Stone labelled the music “haunting,” feeding the scheme.

Above the beach, vendors sell t-shirts and key chains and miniature wind up caves. The sound isn’t at all the same. It doesn’t soak up through the bottom of your feet into your bones. Of course, we can’t feel it like that any more because it’s too “unsanitary” to visit the caves in bare feet. Now we need proper shoes and a tour guide to navigate us through the territory of our childhood dreams.

The red and white sign on the Singing Caves™ kiosk reads: Open 9 am to 6 pm daily. Apparently even dead mermaids need their sleep.

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