Written by Tori Brown
As the sun dips below the horizon, the beach buzzes with a mystical energy. Exotic merchants have gathered from the far corners of the world, to hawk their wares from large ships or little boats, moored to the ancient wooden dock of our small island town. You could hear the din of lively conversation and heated haggling grow louder and louder on your stroll towards to beach from your cottage near the forest. You moved there for the quiet, and for some much-needed inspiration. The air here smells of its usual ocean sea-salt spray mingling with a strange menagerie of spices—none of which you can name. A gaggle of women, all townsfolk with familiar faces, clutch for your arm as you approach the dock.
“Oh, here comes that mysterious painter.”
“Aren’t they charming?”
“So charming. Why haven’t you found a wife yet?”
“It must get lonely in that cottage.”
“My daughter, Annie is desperate, will you take her?”
You laugh off their advances and simply reply that you’re married to your craft. No one could entrance you quite like a canvas desperate for paint, a lump of clay wishing for sculpting, or a wood block begging for carving. Besides, you can’t allow yourself to be distracted by such incessant things as love, not until you’ve unveiled your first masterpiece.
As you step on the wooden dock, you hear a concerning creak and begin to wonder whether it can support the many vendors and patrons crowding it tonight. Fairy lights have been strung up between the boats casting a warm glow on the night. Nearby, a cloaked vendor sells a variety of aromatic teas, each promising to remedy a different ailment from headaches to erectile dysfunction. The local fisherman is all too eager to point this out, guffawing loudly to any unfortunate passer-by between long drags of his pipe. A small yellow boat sells jewelled finery for those of old and new wealth. An imposing pirate ship sells an assortment of goods: foreign coins, wigs woven from animal furs, and gilded swords that don’t look as though they were made for fighting. A rickety old boat, seemingly no larger than a kayak, is sinking into the ocean, weighed down by its collection of large paintings. The painter paces the dock above in fear as the old captain below struggles to move the wares onshore. You chuckle to yourself for their oversight and then offer a hand to the old captain. Despite the painter’s protests, the captain shrugs you off and continues in the pursuit. At this rate he might finally unload the ship by the time the night market’s over.
The many boats lining the dock all have their own oddments and quirks, keen to attract the right buyer. As you stroll past, wooden floorboards creaking in sharp protest, a strange boat bobbing down by the far end of the dock catches your eye. She’s a considerably sized ship, her wooden exterior painted purple and speckled with many yellow dots that resemble constellations, casting beautiful reflections on the ebbing ocean waves. You feel yourself pulled towards it. A tug at first, and then a persistent feeling you can’t ignore. Your feet carry you to its painted door. On the door is a white, clam-shaped doorknocker which you use to politely alert the shopkeeper to your presence. As if on its own, the door slowly swings open. Once inside, the door snaps shut. You stand in the inky blackness, straining to detect the slightest of noises, instead hearing only the roaring white noise of the waves below.
Suddenly, a simple melodic chime plays, and a blue spotlight shines, its abrupt light catching a flight of dust in the air. Illuminated by this spotlight is a large, red curtain, reminiscent of an old opera theatre. The chime plays again and the red curtain splits. In the middle of the stage is a large, pearly-white clamshell, mouth firmly closed. You walk up to it and try to pry it open to no avail. You try again and you are met with the strange melody again. An impish smile plays across your lips. You poorly whistle the chime back.
Then the clam’s mouth opens.
You fall back. Sitting inside the clamshell is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. Deep blue hair cascades down her shoulders with ornamental starfish and little clams clipped throughout. Her hair glitters in the spotlight, as bright as a night sky deprived of streetlamps and as full of stars as can be. Her lips, plump and red. Her eyes, bright sapphires. A pink clamshell brassiere holds back her breasts, as full-bodied and elegant as Aphrodite. All atop a vibrant, green, forked fishtail. Your mouth is dry, what do you say to such beauty? Before you can think of an adequate response she hums the chime’s melody, her voice a screeching, halting thing, and the ship fills with water. You panic, splashing this way and that way until she grabs you by your chin, and kisses you as the water slowly rises around you both. When she lets go, you gasp, anxious in your anticipation of the water flooding your lungs. Instead, you draw breath.
The mermaid starts to sing a high warbling melody, as the chime plays again, slowly morphing into a great sweeping orchestral piece. Fish swim around you and more spotlights fill the ship with a gorgeous light display, dancing watercolours on an unfinished painting. More mermaids appear in clam-shaped balconies above you, lending their voice to the song. You look up and it appears as though the ceiling is gone; you are no longer in a little ship but the entire ocean writ large, a masterpiece. A warmth spreads across your chest and you laugh, sending bubbles upward. The song concludes, the mermaid smiles, the water drains out of the room, and you are greeted by the inky blackness once more.
You open your eyes, unsure of when you closed them. Looking down at you are the concerned faces of your fellow townsfolk; the mayor says something you don’t quite make out and offers you a hand. You attempt to stand, your legs wobbly as sand clings to your water-logged clothes. You are drenched and can’t seem to fully remember why. Staggering towards the dock, your eyes manically scan the plethora of ships. There’s the tea merchant, the yellow ship, the pirate ship, but none are the one you seek.
Where has your love gone?
That mysterious siren who entrapped your heart, has proved herself as elusive as the many scrapped masterpieces in your little cottage. They all seem so pointless now, without someone to admire them. Was she not your greatest masterpiece yet? You look towards the ebbing waves once more and feel a pull. A little, familiar tug. As the townsfolk yell after you, you place one foot in front of the other and feel the foaming waves lap at your calves, slowly walking into the sea.
Where your love waits.
Author Bio:
Tori Brown (she/her) is a queer Meanjin-based creative currently studying a Bachelor of Fine Arts (Creative Writing) at QUT. She has been published in Glass Magazine, Strange Daze II, Uplift Poetry, and ScratchThat. She wrote “Never Blue” the headlining play for Vena Cava’s 2024 Freshblood Festival. In 2024 she was the recipient of the Kellie Van Meurs Memorial Scholarship for her contributions to creative writing at QUT. In 2025 she was shortlisted for QUT’s Allen & Unwin Prize. She has been active in QUT Literary Salon as both President and Social Media Manager. In 2026 she was an Editorial Board member with ScratchThat magazine. None of her works would be possible without the immense emotional support of her cat and the power of caffeine. Contact her via email at niwatori024@gmail.com or follow her on instagram @tori.writes.sometimes