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The Siren Songs

What happens when sirens pop up in modern-day society?

By Bobe HadjievaPublished 4 years ago 6 min read
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Photo by Artem Beliaikin on Unsplash

When I heard that my name had been turned into a legend I was shocked but not surprised. There is an element of truth in every story, even when it sounds like a Greek myth. I’d heard strange bits of conversation throughout the whole day, disjointed fragments of descriptions, but they were all about me. I didn’t think much of them in the moment. Only when I was safely away from any human contact did these conversations rise back up in my mind, not unlike layers of muck at the bottom of a lake when your foot stamps down.

I focused my attention on the jagged horizon ahead of me, the final flames of light painted their last, desperate arches of purple on the sky. This last reminder of warmth almost amplified my increasing sense of the cold. It was a teaser of what I would have to wait for until morning. My feet dangled over the edge of the cliff I was sitting on, the city laying far beneath them. I was sure that little gems of white and orange lights were beginning to pop up all over the streets, though I didn’t need to look down to be certain.

I had gotten into the habit of picking one thing from my surroundings that made me uncomfortable and focusing all my senses on it. It was a test of endurance, of how well I could fit into hostile circumstance. At that moment I focused on the cold. I hated all seasons except for summer, I could barely stand the thought of night replacing day, and I certainly didn’t care for the sensation of wet feet. It was autumn and it had just finished raining, and I could feel my damp socks chilling my toes inside my sneakers. The cliff rock I was sitting on had been rained on and I knew that I would feel a wet ring on my jeans if I got up. The air around me wasn’t making me feel too cozy either. Although there was no wind, as currents of air ruffled through branches with yellowing leaves, I felt as if my back was being stabbed by a chilling knife.

Still, while I focused on my stiffening body, my thoughts couldn’t seem to freeze for a second. I only went down to the city once a year. The rest of the time I kept to myself. I only went down as a reminder to myself what species I was from. It was the only time I allowed myself to be social. I was always content enough with spending my entire day in a coffee shop, watching people walk by the window, maybe eavesdropping on a few conversations. When spending the vast majority of your life alone, other people suddenly become so fascinating to observe.

This time the day started off exactly like that. I had parked myself in an oversized, soft couch right by the door of a coffee shop, slowly sipping on my lukewarm latte, pretending not to follow the conversation of a couple a few paces away from me. Some literature critic lecturing an aspiring poet. I was ready to get up an pay twenty minutes into their conversation, when the older man’s comment nailed me back to my seat. It was a recommendation to read The Siren Songs, some award winning poetry anthology by an unknown poet.

Later in the day two women were talking about the “silent siren”, as they called her. They called her a siren because their kids fell asleep to her stories as if by magic. They had even bought four or five copies of the book, to place in different rooms of their houses. The women had stopped their shopping carts in the middle of the canned foods section of the supermarket. I only went in to get a packet of biscuits, but ten minutes later, I was still frozen in my spot, trying to catch every word they were saying. I couldn’t quite follow the end of the conversation from above the hubbub and traffic in the aisle, not without getting suspiciously close to them.

While walking past the window of a bookshop I couldn’t help but notice the two giant posters plastered to the glass, advertising this year’s bestseller. The blasted blue cover of The Siren Songs was printed, front and centre.

When it was time for dinner, I picked a dimly lit Italian restaurant to eat at. The way they served their greasy pizza on rustic-looking wooden boards, accompanied with a glass of red wine, made you feel like you were eating sophisticated takeaway. The group next to me started discussing the online trending story about the sixth car accident that was linked to the driver’s listening to audiobooks. Apparently in this case, as well as in all the other, the driver had put on one of the Siren’s Songs. Moments before the crash he had ended up in some sort of paralysed trance. Reports said that he also had some internal organ bleeding that was not connected to the crash. They were still running tests to figure out what had caused them.

At the end of the day, as I sat on my freezing cliff rock, I couldn’t help but try to freeze these thoughts away. But feelings of remorse mixed confusingly with anger and self-pity in my chest. When I sent my notes with my poems to the publisher a year ago, I never imagined my written words would have the same effect as my spoken ones. Otherwise I would never have cursed the world with my voice again. The nickname “siren” was ironically fitting for me in this way. Before I removed myself into isolation people spontaneously burst into flames in the heat of my anger; in times of my own sorrow the eyes of those around me gouged from their sockets before bleeding dry. Now it seemed that my exile from society was in vain. Even from a distance my words still tortured people to death. There was nothing more I could do to save the world from myself.

By the time the last peaks of sunshine had completely disappeared, I had almost convinced my body that it was part of the cold, wet rock it was sitting on. But I couldn’t quiet my mind to such a state of stillness. Thoughts of all kinds kept springing back and forth from all corners of my conscience. They alone kept my brain warm and alive. I felt anger at myself, rising slowly from the pit of my stomach. It warmed me up, inspite of the chilling air and my best efforts to remain cold. I had killed again. And I would continue to for as long as I lived. I had power over people’s bodies but I was powerless against my own. The bubbling anger within me began to emit yellow rays of light. I knew that it was looking for a way out. I jut had to keep my mouth shut. As long as I did, that angry light would stay inside me and just consume my stomach.

The sun had already tipped off the edge of the horizon. The black starless sky had lost all nuance in colour. Any hope for dawn was only implicit. Then, just like the last lights had sunk in the west, another ball of light grew and heated up, rising from a remote spot, on an isolated cliff side in the east.

fantasy
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About the Creator

Bobe Hadjieva

A culturally-confused, sic-fi/fantasy nerd, with an over-active imagination and a passion for writing.

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