Not Just A Few Are Called, But Everyone: Astrid Edith, Torben Hardenberg, Pipaluk Lake

Moving out through the breakers and into the warmth, there are signs of darting sharks that have emerged from the cold dark depths of the trench into the bright shallows to search for colourful prey, its survival on an aesthetic scale.

The cold-blooded glass eyes roll back in her head so as not to be blinded from the overworld＊s distant reactor; she feels and sense her way through the soft warm waters with such finite and intricate receptors, perceiving the electric pulses of all the colorful sun-drenched sea life (prey), if the fragile little charlatan＊s twitch of a muscle, or change in rhythm by struggling to open the gills to filter in some needed oxygen, even through the blinding glass-like liquid she knows where to find sustenance. With the grace of blood through veins she races through the oyster-laden pearls and over the reefs full of glistening bottles strewn overboard by lazy hominids that skate overhead. The shark winces as she feels the tumbled glass edges rasp over her sleek grey skin; as that pain passes these objects reflect more strife of blinding flashes of the edges through the back of her eyes.

In these seconds the prey gives itself away for the last time; its gills give one more pull as doom moves in, but life was beautiful, no rent, no meaningless tasks, just all life and all living.

She strikes with all her power, and darts so suddenly down to the depths with the meal, past sunken plunder of gold and opals. She finds a hidden place to ruminate and feel the prey squirm within her jaws.

In the first most enjoyable bite, which she had pined for, as she bares down with her massive jaws she senses something spear and crack between her set of razorblade-like mandibles, her eyes roll back to front and open as wide as they can be, as blood starts to drain from her mouth and filter her vision, and ever so helplessly she can no longer clasp her prey.

A shard of glass that she unknowingly enveloped with the snack in the warm safe waters above had broken through her gum and into her mind.

By happenstance the feeble tropical creature escapes from the jaws of its captor; there is no time to celebrate as it＊s ejected into an unknown world of darkness. With no strength, it turns back to the shark and watches it slowly disappear and contort lifelessly. Our prey＊s beauty is useless, the luminescence of the shallows is all but a myth here. She takes one last gulp of water, and the fragile gills filter it for a final time, letting go is its only solace as this brutal dance concludes.

Can we know our own end so simply? Can we choose to let go or are we called? Are we in this together? Maybe not just a few are called, but everyone,

- Owen Armour