Angharad Thompson Rees
You think you know the story. You've heard it before, from sailors who regale the tales in ale-made stupors. Do not believe them, for if they live to tell the tale they fail to tell you one important thing—the truth.
Some recount her voice, the sweet angelic singing, enough to pull any hardhearted captain adrift from well-laid plans.
Others describe her flame-like hair charming even the hardiest of rapscallion pirates away from pieces of eight and coffers aplenty.
Her eyes, deep as the Southern Ocean are aquatic blue with the hue of heartbreak.
Myths. Legends all. Pretty little lies and such, that warns of the missing, sunken ships, breathless lungs, and submerged hearts. But I know the truth—nobody survives the siren's call.
Whether you believe me or not is none of my concern. I ask you only to listen.
~
“It's a siren's purse. Whisper a wish in its pocket and throw it back into the sea,” said she who was my best friend and sister both. She, with the imagination and the name of Summer, which suited her perfectly.
I handled the shriveled, dried up pocket of seaweed, no more a real siren's purse than the smile on my face. Both felt empty and lackluster and withered. She was still looking at me, so I amused her.