Sharni Miller

Dearest, 

You are in a bad way. I can barely hold you without ink sticking to my skin, without  doing more damage to your already yellowing pages. You will not last long here. You’re a delicate thing, just like the others who came before you. 

Now, I hope you don’t mind me calling you dearest. I know that’s what he used to call  you. I don’t think he ever gave you a proper name, I have searched your pages but have not found  one. Oh, I wouldn’t fret about it if I were you. You know I heard him refer to his bow as Apollina? A bow named in honour of Apollo, how original! I think it’s a stroke of luck that he didn’t try to bestow you with a name, not with his rather limited creativity, don’t you think? 

Anyhow dearest, the first thing you must understand is that it was a great tribulation to  save you from the sea. It is painful for me to pull myself up onto the rocks, but I did it dearest so that you might have an hour or so more of living (so to speak). I am so clumsy above the waves. It makes me feel so alien and defenceless when I am here with the tides so low. I did this all for you. Not that I expect gratitude. That is such a human trait. You must understand sirens are above grovelling for thanks. 

You’ve heard plenty about sirens, haven’t you? I know this, because I have read what he  has written in your pages, and it is nearing on obsession. Mostly fanciful, boyish fantasies of heroism. He sees us (me!) like a monster beneath his bed. Look he has written of my hag-like claws and gnarled fangs; he has said that to fight against my call he must simply exercise his notable strength of will and that the crew worries over nothing. I hope you see the humour in this  dearest. I know that humans write what is on their mind, I know that is the point of you, but I do not want to go into detail on this particular subject. It’s crass, is it not? To describe a man you have just devoured. Besides, humans do not write of violence either. I am trying to replicate their experience of writing as closely as possible. I hope it will make me better at understanding them, at understanding what they want to hear. I would starve without that knowledge dearest. In this way you are most invaluable. 

I have met with plenty of ships carting soldiers from one war to another and they do not  write of the battlefield. Now dearest this is most unusual, for they talk of war extensively. They sing in rabbles, swaying on the upper deck, drunken and moonlit, warbling about blood and blades. The details would make you squirm. Yet their journals are quite contrary to this  performance. Just quiet admissions written in a shaky hand. They repeat the same things. I  cannot imagine looking my mother in the eye anymore. I cannot sleep. The nightmares are back  again. I pissed the bed because I was frightened like a child. I wish the gods would just let me  die. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. Frankly I am bored of these sorts of journals dearest. It’s all a little dramatic for my taste. These soldiers decided to march off to war, why should they feel  sorry for themselves? I do not feel sorry for sinking ships. It is in my nature. Our lives are just fate unfurling, this is something that soldiers and sailors fail to understand. 

So, what else is there to write of dearest, if not violence? Oh I am just teasing, I know  you know the answer. It is love dearest. What else? Love is a preoccupation for humans. Pages upon pages of poorly written sonnets; of sweethearts with eyes of sky blue or earthen brown or  jewelled green. It is all much of the same thing. The man who used to write in your pages liked to wax poetic like this (only in between buffing up his bravado, of course). Though I must say, the human version of love is so unimaginative. There is no danger in it. Just a person one thinks of often. Someone to say sweet words about.

Dearest, sometimes I think of someone. Like a human might. I pass the memory of her  between my palms like a stone. It is part of my practice in understanding sailors. Nothing more dearest, honest. I think I will tell you the story of her, as an exercise in understanding humans. 

The first thing you must know is that she was an oddity. One never sees women on ships. According to sailors they are bad luck (I disagree with this sentiment of course; I think every human who steps foot on a ship is bound by misfortune, not just the women). She was so memorable dearest. For one, wives are much prettier than sailors. Sailors only have their cheaply whittled weapons and stained shirts. Wives, on the other hand, are dripping in decadence. Embroidered dresses, jewelled earrings, necklaces dotted with shining pearls. She wore it all so splendidly. From the water I watched the browning skin at her neck, watched her wrists peeking  from behind ruffled sleeves. I waited days to sing to that ship because I wanted to know what she would wear next. I imagined taking the fine fabric between my teeth and biting down. Perhaps she would taste of marble. Perhaps I would break my teeth. Dearest what a frivolous pastime this  was. It was a pity it had to come to an end. 

When I eventually sang for this ship it was not my finest work. The sailors were slow to  dive into the water. Usually, I pick a better tune to lilt through. If I’m being honest though, I was  preoccupied, waiting for her to jump. She cut through the water like a knife, a flurry of finery.  She was most unlike the sailors, who start begging the gods for mercy as soon as they hit the  water (that is always when they come to their senses, when it is too late). I can’t stand the screaming. It’s so childish, so benign. Why does everyone think that the gods will hear their  protests if they only yell loud enough? Sailors are so self-centred in this regard. The pretty lady did not scream. She barely seemed surprised. One minute, she was leaping to her death, the next she was treading water, bobbing against the swell with an expression that bordered on boredom. She offered me a tight-lipped smile, as if we had met before. 

Well. I suppose this is it. She announced. Make it quick if you please. I hate the cold. 

I hate it too. I replied. Do you think that was a silly thing to say dearest? I don’t have much experience with conversation. I often worry that I started it all wrong, that it should have gone differently. 

I didn’t know you could speak. 

Well, I can sing, can’t I? Why wouldn’t I speak? 

Yes. I suppose. Her head ducked beneath the water for the briefest moment. She emerged, hair dripping. You have a lovely singing voice. Like honey. 

It must sound like someone you know. It always does. Who did you hear? 

She considered the question, brow furrowed. That was better than her look of boredom. Or perhaps not better? It was different dearest. You know, I think I just liked that I could be the cause of a change in expression. It was a thrill. 

Like someone I knew once. Long ago. She answered. 

A friend? 

A girl. She answered, like it was a confession. She craned her neck to stay above the water. She sounds lovely. I offered.

She was. 

Are you cold? I asked. I didn’t want to talk about that girl anymore. It sounded more like a tale the would take hours to tell. We did not have hours. 

I’m freezing. 

I didn’t know what to say. There was nothing I could offer her. I tried to think up more  conversation, I really did, but fate stays on its steady path. I had run out of words, and she had run out of energy. The water pulled her under a final time. I was left with my screaming sailors. That is where the story stops. Oh, dearest don’t look at me like that. 

What was I supposed to do? Save her from the water? Then what? She had said herself that she wanted it to be quick. If I had plucked her from the waves she would have starved on the rocks. You are taking this story too seriously dearest. I do not like the judgemental silence I am finding  on your pages. I only told you because it is a silly anecdote. A stupid human-ish thing. I barely think of her at all. Oh gods I don’t know why I am writing all this down. You are muddying my thinking dearest. Twisting my words. I don’t know why I am writing at all. It’s not as if you can say anything back. I could scream at you for hours and it wouldn’t change the fact that you are just a half empty journal. 

Dearest, I think I will avoid writing for a while. This hasn’t helped. What was I thinking? Pilfering ink and quill from a sinking ship? Fishing a notebook out of the sea? I must look ridiculous, sitting here against the rocks, prim and proper, as if I am a sailor writing home. This was never going to work. I am not human enough for this. I am something else entirely.

ABOUT SHARNI MILLER

Sharni Miller is the proud owner of a creative writing degree and the not so proud owner of an egregious HECS debt. She writes mostly historical-ish and horror-ish pieces (including the debut novel she is currently working on, which is a bit of both). She also runs a substack blog @sharnimiller and is currently making the finishing touches on an australian horror podcast script that she hopes to record soon. 

If you want to keep up to date with these projects, or if you want to read some old work, you can find her on Instagram @sharni_writes 

Copyright Sharni Miller, March 2025. All rights reserved; this intellectual property belongs solely to Sharni Miller.