The Siren of Seattle strode along the quiet avenue as a faint drizzle fell against her rosy, cheeks. She was glad for the rain—it helped obscure the evidence of her sadness. She had found that walks around the neighborhood helped to lift her mood; there was something healing in the act of moving her body, feeling the cool breeze on her skin, and seeing the smiles of strangers as she passed.

And without fail, each stranger did smile.

The Siren had taken to singing quietly to herself as she ambled along, it settled her, centered her being, and each stranger she passed would meet her eyes—a rarity in the Pacific Northwest—and smile as though her song were the lone shining light under those dreary gray skies.

The Siren couldn’t know whether her singing voice was beautiful—in fact, she would swear that it was not. This was not for a lack of confidence or an above average sense of self-awareness (bless those poor souls on American Idol). No, it was because, as Fate would have it—the cruel, fickle asshole that she is—the Siren of Seattle was deaf.

I say that Fate is cruel not because being deaf is an inherently lesser state of being—your friendly narrator does not hold that belief. No, I say Fate is cruel because I’ve met her many times and I’ve found that among her favorite tools is that of irony, especially when irony is deployed in such a way that it leads to a person’s ability to appreciate and love themself being diminished in some form or fashion. So, yeah, I think Fate is an asshole. But this story, rightly, isn’t about Fate.

As the Siren of Seattle strode along the gray sidewalk, under gray skies, in a gray mood, on a gray afternoon, she sang quietly and her dark mood lightened with each passerby she encountered.

And then she bumped into Oliver.

“Sorry, >!miss! I’m!<so sorry. I’m Oliver. >!I wasn’t watching where I was!< going.!”

“I read lips a bit, but are you able to sign?” She said.

“Yes! I’m sorry for bumping into you,” Oliver signed cheerily with his expressive hands. “I’m Oliver. What’s your name?”

“I’m Sally, and that’s ok. My mind was elsewhere,” she signed in return.

“I hope it’s not too forward of me to say, but…my god. Your voice. It was so beautiful. I’ve never heard a song so…enthralling.”

“Don’t toy with me, Oliver. It isn’t kind. And I wasn’t singing for you. I sing for me because it makes me happy. You don’t have to like it.”

“No, you don’t get it. I would never make fun of someone’s singing—even if they couldn’t carry a tune to save their life—but you…Your voice is truly astounding. Your song it—it made me feel like I could get hit by a passing bus, but that’d be ok. It’d be ok because the last thing I’d have heard was your song. Are you an artist?”

Sally the Siren was a good judge of character. She had been made fun of plenty of times before by nasty immature boys and jealous insecure girls; she’d found a way to guard her head and her heart against the cruel attacks of the outside world. But this was different. This Oliver fellow seemed sincere. Could it be that she’d actually had a beautiful voice after all?

Oliver and Sally walked together along the gray street, under the light blue sky, and their moods together were bright. They signed and laughed and learned and—dare I say—loved. The two fledgling lovers drank lattes and walked along the water, the sky had awoken to a deep-dark blue.

And then Oliver fucked up.

Sally, feeling the vibe of the moment—that, let’s face it, we were all picking up on—leaned in and tried to kiss Oliver. He leaned away. Her heart sank and the sky—in true Seattle fashion—threatened to drown their brief day in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he signed. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.”

“No, it’s my fault,” she responded. We all know it wasn’t her fault. Oliver was a careless, clueless boy. Another in a long line of immature assholes from which she’d learned to guard her heart.

“No, no. I should have said something earlier. I just wanted to get to know you before I asked you what I wanted to. I think you’re really cool, I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”

Her heart now sat at the bottom of Lake Washington. They’re never looking for a relationship.

“What is it that you wanted to ask me then?”

And then Oliver said those fateful Pacific Northwest words. Those words that are always being uttered by at least five or six other dudes in the Seattle area at any given point in time.

“>!Well,!< I’m in a band and >!I’m looking!<for a singer. >!It’s the last thing!< we need before we hit it big. You’re our missing piece, >!I just know it!!<“

He didn’t need to sign that. Sally made out the key parts. She signed that she’d think about it and went on her way.

Sally, the Siren of Seattle, walked slowly back home as the faint drizzle had turned into a torrent. She was thankful for the rain—it helped obscure evidence of her sadness. Fate was, as usual, a wrathful asshole. But Sally, again, sang quietly as she strolled the avenue, and could not help but feel cheered by the smiles she encountered. She remembered what he’d said about her voice. At least she had that. Not everyone was so bad. Maybe there’d be brighter days ahead.

And there were.

Sally the Siren went out solo and was bigger than Nirvana. Who needs a band when you have a voice like hers? She was signed by Sub Pop after an exec saw her bustling on the street corner by Pioneer Square. She had been at it for all of fifteen minutes before she was plucked from obscurity and thrust into stardom.

Perhaps Fate, as beleaguered a being as she is, is less of an asshole than I had previously assumed.

And maybe, just maybe, fate works in ways mortals—or, sure, even immortal narrators—cannot quite understand.

r/InMyLife42Archive

“Hmmm mmmmm. Hammmm mmmmm. Hwoooo ooooouah, huaaaaaa ooohaawaaaa.”

It felt natural. I was born without hearing, yet I loved singing. My voice rang out, like a call that only angels could dream of. It grasped hearts and soothe worries. It brought warmth when none could be found. It made the strongest cry and the weakest wail. In the driest worlds, this voice of mine would cause clouds to form, as long as there was a man to hear my song.

“Haaaaa ooooooh. Haaaaa ooooooooooh. Haaaaaa ooooouah, huaaaaaa ooohaawaaaa.”

So I wonder. What will grasp at my heart? What will soothe my worries? If it does come, will it bring me warmth? Will I no longer shed tears of sadness, but tears of joy?

“Come all, you fair maids. Whoever you may be. There is nothing that can console me, but my jolly sailor bold! There is nothing that can console me, but your cupid's arrow in my heart!”

Stories of lands from beyond, the stories my sisters sang of. They called them men. Those men wanted to offer everything, yet they slaughtered them. They sang of worlds that a broken being such as myself could never even begin to create images of. The thoughts in my head could not imagine, no matter how I tried. For I am, the sole deaf one.

“Please… come, somebody. Someone. I want to see it. I want to dream it.”

—--------------------------

“Land ho!”

—--------------------------

Many moons ago, giant creatures swam in this home of mine. They had no warmth, no life, and no soul. Yet I could feel the vibrations of something I do not have. Joy, love, and the thing I seek most. I, alone, abandoned by my sisters hid. Day by day, week by week, moon by crescent and crescent by moon, they kept moving in this home of mine. Different, yet the same. Soulless.

“Captain…”

“Gilbert. Gather the men, this siren won't take us!”

“Aye!” The young man jumped down and began shouting to the crew.

“Siren!! Siren!! Gather round!”

I wished they would stay. I call, yet they run. I cry, yet they ignore me. Why? Are you man? Will you be my Jolly sailor? Why did it change? Why do you answer me now? It changed. The aura is glowing, shaking. It felt warm, like my sisters’ voice, yet like poles apart.

“Basil, the shanty!!”

“Aye! Gather round men!”

““Vayra, veyra, vayra, veyra,”

Are you calling out to me?

“Gentil, gallanntis veynde”

My Jolly sailor?

“I see him, veynde, I see him”

“Louder men, louder!!!”

“Pourbossa, pourbossa.”

“Fight, fight the siren! Let our hearts win!”

“Haill all and ane, hail all and ane;

Hail him up til us, hail him up til us.”

“Captain Eustace, does it not sound lonely?”

“Do not waver Philip, you are my first mate”

“Gilbert, Basil, and the others feel the same.” Phillip turned to face his captain.

“Captain, it’s different. It's lonely. Alone in spirit, song, and without sirens.” He pleaded to his captain.

“You are wavering! Sing louder! Feel it in your heart! Do not succumb”

“Captain, have we ever found a siren lone? There is no mention of this in any texts! Will your fear leave a innocent woman to the seas?”

—-----------

The faraway land, the cultures and the tongues. The people of the east, the children of the west. The men of the north, and the woman of south. I now see them, awake, or asleep. They’re always there.

“En-Naddāha!” The young man ran over. “Myrtles” He smiled as he handed me a flower. “And of course, Egyptian lotus” His warm dark eyes shined, as he surprised me with his other hand.

Oh, my jolly sailors. You’ve come.

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