The Mermaid It Created - By Madison Dean

Written By: Madison Dean

Category: Creative Non-Fiction

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Madison Dean's submission, "The Mermaid It Created," is a captivating piece of creative non-fiction submitted to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This evocative narrative transports readers from Alberta to the serene landscapes of Prince George, BC. Through her vivid storytelling, Madison explores themes of personal growth, adventure, and the transformative power of nature.

About the Work

Madison Dean's work beautifully captures the essence of change and self-discovery through nature's embrace. Her narrative is rich with imagery, portraying the contrast between urban life and the serenity of the lake. The piece is woven with nostalgia and a deep appreciation for the lessons learned beyond city limits. The imagery of crystal waters and emerald hands symbolizes the profound connection between the protagonist and her surroundings.

The Mermaid It Created

Original Submission by Madison Dean

The Mermaid It Created

If I hadn’t moved from Alberta, I wouldn’t have become a mermaid. I wouldn’t have crystal water running through my veins instead of warm, burgundy blood, nor the affinity for adventure I currently possess. I wouldn’t have the ocean tides in my soul, nor hands of emerald green. If I had lingered in Alberta, I would have remained drawn to the idealized city life I’d read about in books–the staggering skyscrapers and people dressed in fancy clothes that always have somewhere important to be–though there would always be a gaping void I could never fill.

My family moved to Prince George, BC when I was six years old. Though we moved due to my Dad’s career, we came to appreciate that there are some lessons that can only be learned through forests, lakes, and 10 feet of snow. Yes, there are things to be learned in the prairies: I learned how to golf and ride a tractor with my grandpa; how to make the most delectable picnic with my grandma–mini sandwiches are always the way to go; and how to find the perfect rocks on the gravel road to bribe my three-year-old sister to keep walking. But in Alberta, there were some things that I couldn’t learn. I couldn’t learn that climbing a pine tree is the best way to win at hide and seek tag, or that grizzlies weren’t just the three bears from Goldilocks, and they unfortunately can’t talk. I couldn’t learn how to make a campfire from scratch and find my way with nothing but a compass. Alberta taught me plenty about the hustle and bustle of city life, but it never taught me how to live in places where time seemed unable to reach me.

I met Acasia when she was fourteen years old; I was eight. This year was our first summer at her lake, and my first real time away from the rushed lifestyle of the city. Time wasn’t as ornery at the lake as it was elsewhere. It left its briefcase of worries, stresses, and upcoming deadlines at home with the rest of our lives. Instead, it donned a baseball cap, some shorts, then joined my dad and Sotirios at the barbecue table with a beer in hand. Other times, it would grab a book to join my mom and Shauna at the newly renovated dock.

I never paid much attention to the adult conversations at the time–I was much more interested in my riveting chat with the dog, Holly. That was until the adults moved onto the more gripping topic of supper that evening. Mom or Shauna would usually say, “We should barbecue hamburgers tonight–oh! We can’t forget hot dogs. Lily won’t eat if we don’t have hot dogs.”

We spent most of the day jumping off the recently refurbished dock into the freezing water of the lake. We laughed as we posed like supermodels for our parents–photos that would be undeniably embarrassing in a few years. For now, all we focused on was how, at the lake, time would lay back on a floaty with everyone else–and how sophisticated it was to have matching bikinis. Although the water still felt like ice, I would relive this day on the dock a thousand times over if I could. This summer, I learned that time didn’t always like to rush us. This summer, crystal water ran through my veins instead of blood.

Acasia was fifteen; I was nine. We spent most of the summer on the boat this year, and I fell in love… with tubing. I fell in love with the energy–how the water seemed to come alive as we raced across it, every wave sending us flying high into the air. That day, I swear I touched a cloud.

I thought that nothing could get more exciting than tubing–until I tried kneeboarding. I’ll admit, I wasn’t great at first. It takes an incredible amount of strength to pull yourself upright on a small board being towed behind a boat, but for me, the challenge made it all the more exhilarating. The foaming waves we experienced when tubing now became astronomical walls on either side of me, begging me to scale them. Between being sprayed by rogue waves off the boat and the unstable board beneath me, I had never felt so alive! I certainly never had the opportunity to kneeboard in Alberta.

Acasia shared my love for the adrenaline kneeboarding provided, although unfortunately, my sister wasn’t having as much luck with it as I was. Her straps got tangled, and her board capsized on her first trip out, trapping her underneath. Luckily, she was alright, but after turning the boat around, and convincing her she was not going to get eaten by a shark, she concluded that the thrill of tubing was more than enough for her. While I was captivated by the excitement of kneeboarding, we decided that it was more fun if all of us were enjoying ourselves. Thus, tubing became our tradition. This summer, I learned that experiencing life with some of my favourite people was infinitely more rewarding than simply trying something challenging. This summer, I gained an affinity for adventure that would never let me down.

Acasia was sixteen; I was ten. I caught my first fish this summer. I was thrilled to be able to hold the gorgeous–but slimy–rainbow trout I had caught all by myself. I’d gone fishing once before, but only ever caught my dad. Sorry Dad.

Acasia and I went kayaking at sunrise this summer. The scarlet sun turned the water into a sea of gold, rippling around our paddles as we picked lily pads for my sister. I am proud to say I never tipped my kayak, although my dad tried to sabotage my endeavours. Later that day, we began our voyage to Pirate Island. Acasia and I insisted on kayaking to the island so we wouldn’t be spotted by the resident pirates, but our parents still followed us in the boat, blowing our cover. This summer, I discovered my passion for storytelling. This summer, the ocean tides took up their residence in my soul.

Acasia was seventeen; I was eleven. This was my last summer at the lake, though unbeknownst to me at the time.

We’re racing through the forest, jumping over logs and stumps as we chase down Acasia’s dog, Holly. She slipped her collar on a walk through the trees on the hill overlooking the lake. Panting as we re-attach her collar, we giggle as Holly barks at us, as if to say, “I wasn’t running all that fast. You guys are so dramatic!”

We gaze up at our surroundings to see where we’ve ended up, when Acasia laughs in surprise, “Saskatoon berries! And some raspberries! Look there,” Acasia grins as she gestures to the unruly bushes not twenty feet away, “those would go perfectly for supper tonight.”

Holly smirks as if she knew the berries were here all along- she probably did- as she watches us weave around the thorns and carefully gather as many berries as the folds of our hoodies will permit. We coax Holly to show us back to the house, and run slower this time. After another adventurous trek through the woods, while occasionally stopping to gaze at the fluffy moss inhabiting the towering trees, we arrive back at the house with enough time to wash the berries before dinner.

This summer, I learned that a day spent in the woods could have just as much impact as any big moment. This summer, my hands began to mirror the emerald forest surrounding me.

Acasia is twenty-one; I am fifteen. She is getting married this summer. I get to return to BC once more, but part of me feels torn: excited beyond measure to have a chance at returning to the lake, but anxious to see how it will have changed–evolved–in my absence. Maybe time will no longer feel the same at the lake, and it will rush us on in its usual relentless manner. Will the lake be the same as it was?

It won’t be the same.

The lake may have the same golden hue; the air, the same ethereal glow; the trees may still carry their wisdom, but it won’t be the same. Everyone has changed. I’ve changed. I’m still sometimes drawn to the towering skyscrapers and the opportunities in cities I’ve read about, but I’ve learned to fill that gaping void I once carried. I wonder if it will remember me. I wonder if it will remember the water in my veins, my affinity for adventure, or the ocean tides living in my soul. Will it remember my emerald hands, or the person it helped me become? Will the lake remember the mermaid it created?

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform that invites writers from around the world to showcase their talent and creativity. This competition celebrates diverse voices and offers participants an opportunity to share their unique stories and perspectives with a global audience.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Madison Dean for sharing her evocative piece, "The Mermaid It Created," with us. Her narrative is a beautiful addition to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, reflecting the profound impact of nature on personal growth and identity. Thank you, Madison, for letting us glimpse into your world of adventure and reflection.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.