Flash fiction "Siren with the soft sign"
Each time I saw her after, a flower bloomed on her and in her.
Dear hopeful reader,
Recently
of gave me a hard task of writing a flash fiction piece on a purple flower eater turned flower. I was ruminating over it, and ruminating over it, then ruminating over it some more.Then I thought about dreams. And dreams turning to stories. I thought about
’s dreams turned stories at . I knew what I was going to write: a story about dreams coming true.Lately I’ve been pondering quite a bit on the themes of mourning, death, and pain. There’s a little bit of each present in my new flash “Siren with the soft sign.” And the piece is absurd enough, I hope—starting with the title.
Before you read it, please go subscribe to the aforementioned brilliant, wonderful writers and humans who in a way planted the seed for this wild flower to bloom.
Especially you must read
’s mind-blowing short fiction piece “The Man Who Wouldn’t Die” and poignant, practical essay on hooking readers titled “On Openings.”And especially you must read
’s stunning dream stories like “Dreams of skin and spire” and poetically delectable—yes delectable—novella “Brae’s meteorite.”Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Siren with the soft sign
“A siren from the deep came to me
Sang my name, my longing
Still I write my songs about that dream of mine
Worth everything I may ever be”
— Nightwish, Ghost Love Score
You would not believe it. I could not believe it. Yet it did happen.
I met a woman once who did not age. That is a lie. She aged, ever so slowly—her words. One time she told me she felt trapped at age eighteen.
“My body has been corroding from the inside,” she said. “It burns.”
I could not tell; she looked like porcelain. Delicate yet calm and poised. As if she would not ever break, but could.
“No one believes me. It is unseen,” she sighed. “My mind goes back to the before—my morning, my mourning. The burning has not reached me there yet.”
She said it was a curse to be so young, to die so slow.
A witch cursed her in her dream. She told her to be beautiful she must burn to death. Ever. So. Slowly.
It was nonsense until it made sense.
*
The second time I met her, color returned to her cheeks. A faint smile formed at a corner of her rosy lips. Her eyes were to the floor; albeit, I could catch glimpses of hazel scintillating.
She explained she had another brush with the witch—in another dream. The witch took pity on her, took away some of the pain. But, not without condition.
“She told me to eat siren, with the soft sign,” she almost murmured.
Siren with the soft sign was not a siren that wailed, or a siren that lured. No, it is how she called syringa—lilacs. And they became her syringe of sorts.
“I eat them in my dreams. The burning in me extinguishes. But soon so will I.” She showed her arms in satin gloves.
One by one, she bared her hands shrouded in vines. My eyes widened.
“Less and lesser pain means a softer, faster demise.”
*
Each time I saw her after, a flower bloomed on her and in her.
Her once fiery hair that cascaded to her hips were now climbing roses. Her hazel eyes could no longer see, dandelions poked out in their stead. Her lips, replaced with red tulips.
On an x-ray you could see giant pelican flowers for lungs. Her liver became watercress. Her veins grew to be leaves of dragon tree.
It was a miracle she could still breathe, could still utter words in monosyllables. I held on to what human was left of her.
*
The last time I saw her she was a flower bed, fragrant and sightly. Beguiling even, beckoning for me to fall and melt with her.
I could not believe in dreams becoming real. Yet it did happen. I was relieved I never dreamed.
I brought her a lilac—her favorite—or as she liked to call it: siren with the soft sign. I placed it to her bosom, her soft/ly bleeding heart now.
The expression “siren with the soft sign” used in the story is me goofing off with words. In Russian, the word for lilac is сирень (siren’). It has the soft sign ь at the end, which doesn’t exist in English. I thought it could be a fun way to show the roots of the flower eater turned flower—her calling a lilac a siren with the soft sign. It was meant to also add a bit more absurdity to the story.
The quote from the phenomenal song Ghost Love Score by Nightwish was added afterwards. Although thematically there are no similarities, except maybe the mention of siren, the words felt complementary on a gut level. I trusted that feeling.
Funnily, I have another piece exploring the theme of death through dreamscapes. A few same/similar expressions appear in both pieces such as “lilacs,” “dandelions poke out,” and “eyes widen.” I swear it was unintentional. But how fascinating and interesting, hmm! It’s as if they became each other’s Easter eggs by accident.
Yours hopefully,
Nadia
Nadia, you surely dive deeply when you write! And with your themes as well. But they provoke and elicit pondering, no doubt! Marvelous writing. Ty!
This is one of the most beautiful stories I've read in a long time. Well done Nadia!