Three Sentence Ficathon

She does not bother to pray to the gods, for when has their love ever been any aid to her?

To anyone, perhaps, she thinks, watching a monster from nightmares cresting the waves, a hideous abomination Poisiden has suffered to live, if not created by his own loins.

“Come and have me then, you hideous sack of putrescence, and may you choke on my bones while my flesh rots your insides,” she snaps, tired of it all, the beast’s fangs glinting as it opens its terrible mouth wide - and then, laughter from above, a voice entirely new saying, “I think we can spare the poor creature that, at least,” and her deliverance, winging down, charmed by her insults, caught as neat as in a net.