Deep beneath the shimmering waves of the Atlantic, in a coral-crusted nook of the ocean floor, lived Emily, a mermaid with emerald scales and a curious streak wider than the horizon. Unlike her sisters, who spent their days weaving kelp tapestries or serenading fish, Emily was fascinated by the world above—particularly the strange things that sometimes sank from it. Driftwood, glass bottles, and once, a soggy hat with a feather still clinging to it. She’d hoard these treasures in her grotto, imagining the lives of the surface-dwellers who’d lost them.
One golden afternoon, as sunlight pierced the water in slanting beams, Emily spotted something new bobbing down from above: a brown glass bottle, sealed with a cap, glinting like a jewel. She darted up, her tail flicking with excitement, and snatched it before it could settle into the sand. Back in her grotto, she turned it over in her hands, peering at the label—a faded scrawl that read “Amber Ale.” The cap popped off with a satisfying hiss, releasing a stream of tiny bubbles that tickled her nose. A sharp, earthy scent wafted out, nothing like the briny tang of the sea.
“What’s this?” she murmured, her voice echoing softly in the water. She’d seen humans on boats tipping bottles like this to their lips, laughing and swaying under the sun. Maybe it was a potion. Maybe it was magic. With a shrug and a grin, Emily tilted the bottle and took a swig.
The taste hit her like a rogue wave—bitter, fizzy, and warm, with a hint of something sweet buried underneath. She coughed, bubbles exploding from her mouth, and her tail gave an involuntary twitch. “Ugh, it’s like drinking a storm!” she sputtered, but then she giggled. A strange heat spread through her chest, and the edges of her grotto seemed to soften, as if the coral itself was swaying. She took another sip, then another, until the bottle was half-empty and her laughter bounced off the walls.
Suddenly, a shadow loomed at the entrance—her friend Cal, a grumpy octopus with a knack for finding her in mischief. “Emily, what’s that smell?” he demanded, his tentacles curling in disapproval. “Are you drinking something from the surface?”
“It’s called beer!” she chirped, holding up the bottle. “It’s awful and wonderful, and I think it’s making me floaty. Want some?”
Cal’s eyes narrowed. “You’re already floaty—you’re a mermaid. And no, I don’t trust human nonsense.” But he inched closer, curiosity winning out. Emily splashed a little toward him, and he recoiled as if she’d lobbed a jellyfish.
“Fine, keep your weird brew,” he grumbled. “Just don’t go singing off-key all night. I’ve got eight arms to cover my ears, and it still won’t be enough.”
Emily laughed harder, the beer buzzing in her veins. That night, she did sing—loud, wobbly tunes about sunken ships and starry skies—until the fish begged her to stop. The bottle sat empty in her grotto, a new prize among her treasures, and though her head ached the next morning, she couldn’t help but smile. She’d tasted the surface, just for a moment, and it was a story worth keeping.
And so, Emily the mermaid became the first of her kind to try a beer, proving that even under the sea, a little curiosity can bubble up into something unforgettable.
