Song of the Siren

I don't know who she is but I imagine she is strong. I imagine her smart and sassy, a forger of new paths, an adventurer. She is sea-faring. There is salt on her skin. Her jeans, just above the top of her gumboots, are dark and dragging with sea wrack. I lie her on the bottom of the little boat and there are buttons where a zip should be. I work with frozen fingers. I have been gutting fish and the folds of denim might be the leathery armour of shark skin. She is lithe and muscled as a shark. She could turn in a second and her teeth would catch and hold me, but she chooses to be still, all but the gentle rise and fall of her belly, upturned and waiting.

She is someone out there in the real world. She is a person of flesh and blood, but my mind clamps down on scale and fin. Her words are fish nips, bait swinging before my ravenous mouth. She knows that I would land her and gut her and that my lips are tight from my desire to taste the soft flesh of her. Song of the Siren, a stalking shadow hovering somewhere out there beyond the vacuous internet chatter.

Jump on my hook now, Ms Siren. It is baited full of juicy gore.