Sirens
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Anthology edited by Rhonda Parrish.
Series: Rhonda Parrish's Magical Menageries
Fantasy and Horror / Short Story Anthology
Release Date: July 12, 2016
Trade Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-0692687208
Anthology: Approx. 85,000 words / 260 pages
Also available as an ebook
Find it Online:
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Barnes & Noble
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Goodreads
Independent Bookstores
iTunes/Apple Books
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Wholesale: Ingram or direct: publisher[at]WorldWeaverPress.com
Other books in the series: Fae (1), Corvidae (2), Scarecrow (3), Sirens (4), Equus (5)
Series: Rhonda Parrish's Magical Menageries
Fantasy and Horror / Short Story Anthology
Release Date: July 12, 2016
Trade Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-0692687208
Anthology: Approx. 85,000 words / 260 pages
Also available as an ebook
Find it Online:
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Books-A-Million
Goodreads
Independent Bookstores
iTunes/Apple Books
Kobo
Wholesale: Ingram or direct: publisher[at]WorldWeaverPress.com
Other books in the series: Fae (1), Corvidae (2), Scarecrow (3), Sirens (4), Equus (5)
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DescriptionSirens are beautiful, dangerous, and musical, whether they come from the sea or the sky. Greek sirens were described as part-bird, part-woman, and Roman sirens more like mermaids, but both had a voice that could captivate and destroy the strongest man. The pages of this book contain the stories of the Sirens of old, but also allow for modern re-imaginings, plucking the sirens out of their natural elements and placing them at a high school football game, or in wartime London, or even into outer space.
Featuring stories by Kelly Sandoval, Amanda Kespohl, L.S. Johnson, Pat Flewwelling, Gabriel F. Cuellar, Randall G. Arnold, Michael Leonberger, V. F. LeSann, Tamsin Showbrook, Simon Kewin, Cat McDonald, Sandra Wickham, K.T. Ivanrest, Adam L. Bealby, Eliza Chan, and Tabitha Lord, these siren songs will both exemplify and defy your expectations. ContentsSiren Seeking by Kelly Sandoval
The Fisherman and the Golem by Amanda Kespohl We Are Sirens by L.S. Johnson Moth to an Old Flame by Pat Flewwelling The Bounty by Gabriel F. Cuellar The Dolphin Riders by Randall G. Arnold Is This Seat Taken? by Micheal Leonberger Nautilus by V. F. LeSann Siren’s Odyssey by Tamsin Showbrook Safe Waters by Simon Kewin Notefisher by Cat McDonald Experience by Sandra Wickham Threshold by K.T. Ivanrest The Fisherman’s Catch by Adam L. Bealby One More Song by Eliza Chan Homecoming by Tabitha Lord ExcerptFrom “We Are Sirens” by L.S. Johnson
Big games mean guys from other towns, with two, maybe three parties afterwards. Big games mean the red suitcase, not the blue or the grey. In the red suitcase we have the high school clothes: the miniskirts and tennis shoes, the t-shirts and the lipstick as red as the cherry slurpees we grab on our way to the field. In the red suitcase we have five denim jackets with a patch on the back that says SIRENS, because for the big game we’re always an out-of-town gang, tough girls from some generic City that turn heads and make the adults scowl and whisper, make the mothers especially suck their teeth in disapproval and the fathers agree though with a gleam in their eye, a gleam that remembers what it was like to be a teenage boy watching the tough girls and wondering if it was all true, what they said about tough girls. We take our slurpees and we climb up to the top of the bleachers and sprawl there, our bare legs loose and splayed on the warm metal, the wind ruffling at our skirts. We slurp our slurpees with our pursed red lips and we hum, just loud enough for the wind to hear. We hum the call of Hades, so he’ll be ready for his new arrivals. And as always we pause and listen. Sometimes we’ll hear an answering melody, like a shepherd’s pipes, or a farmer suddenly bursting into song, or a radio starting from out of nowhere. But though we strain to hear there is only the rumbling of the crowd and the blaring loudspeaker announcing names. It’s been a long, long time since we heard an answer. But we are sirens, and someone has to sing. We settle in to wait as the game kicks off, scratching the bumps of our wings against the railing of the bleachers, our legs tangling pink and olive and brown as we play footsie with each other. We sing in whispers of other sunny days spent waiting, watching games being played, watching cars and horses passing, watching our meadow-grass bending in the wind or the surf crashing against our rocks. We have been this way a long time, and some time, and not long at all, for all times are then and now and everything between. We will be and we have been and we always are, and that’s all we need to know. And damn, but we love us some cherry slurpees. One of us farts and some of us titter and we slurp until our straws are sucking air. The final whistle is like birdsong and we sing in response: it’s time it’s time it’s time. From “Is This Seat Taken?” by Michael Leonberger I think of the woman again. Her soft legs. I look at my wife. So stressed. Like pushing a human through her body did something to her—messed her up. And look...I mean, I know it did. I'm not blind to that. She's got a bottle of pain killers she keeps in her sock drawer that she didn't need before Bobbi, and I'm not blind to that, either. I'm also not so insensitive I would ever say that to her, but I got eyes, I got a brain, and...it's just a shame, isn't it? No. You know, that's not right. That's my own stress talking. It's just Bobbi never stops crying, and we haven't slept in months, and my job, God dammit, my job is the worst. And the Metro... I'm riding the Metro right now, thinking about dead bodies, almost hoping I'll see one. That would change things. Seeing a flayed body on the side of the tracks, trying to hitch a ride. Thumbs up, ya filthy bum. God, this isn't me. What's happening to me? I'm just so tired, and I'm looking around now, in vain, trying to see that woman. 'Cuz I'd like to meet her. Hide my wedding band, maybe, and just see. Just see what mighta happened if I were still single. I just want a peek. Into a life I maybe could have had. I don't want that life. Wouldn't trade Bobbi and Margo for anything. But I'd like to see. From “Nautilus” by V.F. LeSann “You alright there, bits-and-bytes? You looked a million miles away just now.” I might have been, I decided. But I shook my head. “I am well, Jones.” I offered a smile and kept my stride in pace with hers. My programming had always allowed me some leniency when it came to entirely truthful responses. She thumped me on the shoulder with a closed fist and a grin. “Attaboy, Naut. You know you’re made for this shit.” I forced a smile. Naut. When they referred to the body of the ship, they would use the full designation of Nautilus. But it seemed beyond them to understand that I was a part of the ship, not a separate entity warranting a distinct name. I had a humanoid face, just like them. I possessed a body, which I transported from here to there by walking. But my mind was the mind of the vessel as a whole. I was Nautilus. ‘Naught’, as I heard the name, had several meanings. It could indicate a thing lost or ruined, as in ‘our dreams had come to naught’. It could designate something entirely lacking worth or purpose. Although most commonly, ‘naught’ meant zero. An absence. The name they’d given me meant nothing at all. From “Notefisher” by Cat McDonald “Is this what it's supposed to feel like?” I thought, and said, and as the words left my mouth they appeared in my vision, a blue script etched in the campfire smoke, drifting up and out of view. “What is that?” I thought without saying, and the words appeared just under the previous ones, slightly violet now, the seed of a spiral beginning to spin in on itself in the firelight. Every new thought embroidered itself in smoke and sound, stitched to the previous. The visible beat pulsed through the campfire, a low, dizzying sub-tune singing in my lungs and legs. “How are you doing?” Terra asked, her face and posture unchanged from the other times she'd asked, the very same wisp of smoke coiling behind her rough ponytail of dreadlocks. I stared at her, hoping to break the pattern, and she moved, smiling, to lean forward onto me, her skin clammy. “I'm fine,” said the script in the air, but I couldn't be sure whether or not I'd said it. I took a long drink of my cocoa and “this is warm” knit itself into the rest of my thoughts in a cheerful almost-pink violet hue. Words in the distance jabbed into the music, the farewell scream of one DJ handing the stage over to another. The stage lights went red; I could see the music burning in the bonfire while the shadows of cold dancers writhed in the heat. Red lasers scribed letters in the rising smoke. “Am I supposed to be seeing this?” they said. “I like this song.” From “The Fisherman’s Catch” by Adam L. Bealby Burt and his lady-friend made their way over to the booth where I were sitting, and even the ladies were having a good old gawp, though by the look on their faces you’d think they’d never seen a Thai Bride before; least, I think she were Thai. The girls from Cancer Research, they turned their noses up and made for the exit like it were the end days, but then Harrie and Dot have always been a bit, what you call it--racialist. When we was all sitting comfy in our seats I copped a proper eyeful of Burt’s new missus. She were actually a bit funny-looking around the gills. Her skin had a waxy sheen to it and her eyes were too large for her head. Still, you could lose yourself in those eyes. They were like pools of deep green water. With algae at the bottom. When she smiled she had tiny white teeth. I imagined her nibbling me neck with them teeth and it sent a hungry shiver up me spine. And there were summat about her clothes, like I’d seen them before but on someone else… I kept rubbing me eyes, I don’t know why, and me head were all woozy like I were three sheets to the wind. Maybe me adenoids were playing up. I asked her what her name was ’cause Burt had become a bit flustered like, and had forgotten to introduce us. She replied in a sort of raspy voice which sounded like one of the kids Bob lets in Headless King throwing up in the loo after a few shots. Dead sexy it were. “What’s that love?” I said. “She don’t speak English,” Burt said. “Her name’s Glaak… I think… She says that word a lot…” “Glaak,” said Glaak. We had beer-battered cod and chips all round. Glaak didn’t say much for the rest of the night. I respected that. Very lady-like; very—what’s the word? Demure. Not like my Millicent. You couldn’t shut her up if you tried. And God knows I’ve tried. Glaak could put it away, mind. And she drank like a fish. And at one point I thought she’d of been better off with one of them bibs with a scoop at the bottom to catch her nosh. But then I suppose summat might of been lost in translation. The Chinese burp to show their appreciation of a meal don’t they? From “One More Song” by Eliza Chan A bunyip offered his seat to an elderly woman, water dripping from his protruding tusks as he inelegantly flopped from the chair onto all four webbed feet. Looking at him suspiciously, and at the muddy puddle he left pooling on the plastic chair, the elderly lady gripped her handbag tight to her chest and shuffled away without meeting his eye. The air was damp and stagnant, not just because of the sea water dripping from the bunyip’s whiskers. He sighed and rolled his eyes, catching Mira’s glance as he did. They nodded in mutual understanding. “It’s not fair though, you’ve got four legs,” a school boy complained to his friend as they recounted a football match. “So do you,” the other boy quipped as he nickered under his breath. “I’d beat you in a wrestling match, mind” the first boy said as he started to put his scuba apparatus back over his head. The kelpie boy didn’t answer, but turned into horse-form and snatched up his school clothes in his mouth. The doors slid open at the next stop and Mira saw the boys dive into the water, jostling good naturedly as the mildew glass slid back and hid them from sight. In ten years the human will be a manager and the kelpie will work on the factory floor until his back gives out, Mira thought bitterly. “Tell me,” a voice said, the reek of alcohol assailing Mira’s senses, “Why do you do it?” “Excuse me?” A middle-aged woman leered up at her, clinging to the tram pole. She stabbed one finger against Mira’s arm to punctuate her speech. “All that hair and big eyes, reeling them in like stupid fish. He might just be a piece of meat to you but he was someone’s husband!” About the AnthologistRhonda Parrish is driven by the desire to do All The Things. She was the founder and editor-in-chief of Niteblade Magazine, is an Assistant Editor at World Weaver Press, and is the editor of several anthologies including, most recently, Sirens and C is for Chimera. In addition, Rhonda is a writer whose work has been included or is forthcoming in dozens of publications including Tesseracts 17: Speculating Canada from Coast to Coast, Imaginarium: The Best Canadian Speculative Writing (2012 & 2015), and Mythic Delirium. Her website, updated weekly, is at rhondaparrish.com.
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Praise for Sirens
"The call of SIRENS is quite powerful indeed. With a variety of stories, crafted with care, you will delight in the tales that the many authors weave throughout this fantastical anthology. It will lure you in and not let go."
—Tara Platt, author Zartana "Poignant, diverse, and enthralling: this new volume in the Magical Menagerie series evokes the majesty of sirens, from the traditional deep sea variety of Greek mythology to those that entice sailors of deep space to ones who scan modern dating sites with wistful hopes for a good match. I could not stop reading." —Beth Cato, author of The Clockwork Dagger "The moment Rhonda Parrish announces another anthology—especially Magical Menageries installments—I get grabby hands. She always cultivates an amazing selection, and this group of maligned and misunderstood sirens is my favorite of all her books so far, displacing FAE (which I will continue to heartily recommend)." --S. L. Saboviec, author of Guarding Angel "If all anthologies were so well-curated and themed, I would read a lot more short fiction. As it is, I’ve reached the point where I will happily plunk down my money for anything Parrish edits. In short, go out right now and order Sirens!" —Stephanie Cain, author of the Storms in Amethir series "Sirens is a fantastic voyage that tosses the reader up on many a strange-yet-familiar shore. Listen to the unique voices of each story. They’re worth the risk of drowning." —Amber E. Scott, author of Chronicle of the Righteous and Siege of Dragonspear "In Sirens one discovers light and darkness, humor and deadly severity. Females prevail. Men prevail. No one prevails. While reading, you may laugh, ponder, or shudder. But, without a doubt, you will admire the contrasting assortment of Parrish’s contributors." --Amy M. Hawes, Book Club Babble "Sirens is an imaginative anthology that I’d heartily recommend to anyone who wants to be swept away to another time and place." --Long and Short Reviews Praise for the Magical Menageries Series
"Nibble on this deliciously wondrous collection of stories of fae one at a time or binge on its delights on one night, you'll love the faerie feast this collection provides. Love, loss, horror, healing, humor, tragedy--it's all here, where stories of magical beings and the humans they encounter will enthrall and enlighten the reader about both the mundane and the otherworldly. I devoured it."
— Kate Wolford, editor of Beyond the Glass Slipper, editor and publisher of Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine. “The Fae prove treacherous allies and noble foes in this wide-ranging anthology from Rhonda Parrish that stretches boundaries of folk tale and legend. These fairy stories are fully enmeshed in the struggles of today, with dangerous beings from under the hills taking stances against the exploitation of children and the oppression of women, yet offering bargains in exchange for their aid that those in desperate need had best think twice about accepting. There’s no Disney-esque flutter and glitter to be found here — but there are chills and thrills aplenty.” — Mike Allen, author of Unseaming and editor of Clockwork Phoenix “Smart and dark like the corvids themselves, this excellent collection of stories and poems will bring you a murder of chills, a tiding of intrigue, a band of the fantastic, and—most of all—an unkindness of sleepy mornings after you've stayed up too late reading it!” — Karen Dudley, author of Kraken Bake “Corvidae evokes the majesty and mischief of corvid mythologies worldwide—and beyond our world—in a collection that is fresh and thoroughly enjoyable.” — Beth Cato, author of The Clockwork Dagger “Magic and corvids collide in this certain to intrigue anthology.” — Joshua Klein, hacker and inventor of the crow vending machine “A creepy, crazy kaleidoscope of corvids,Corvidae is what happens when you bring together ingenious writers and sagacious subjects. It’s nothing short of a thrill ride when this anthology takes flight.” — Susan G. Friedman, Ph. D., Utah State University; behaviorworks.org. “As sparkling and varied as a corvid’s hoard of treasures, Corvidae is by turns playful and somber, menacing and mischievous. From fairy tale to steampunk adventure, from field of war to scene of crime, these magical birds will take you to places beyond your wildest imaginings.” — Jennifer Crow, poet and corvid-by-marriage “Rhonda Parrish has assembled a stellar collection that runs the gamut of Urban Fantasy to Weird Fiction. Easily the most consistently satisfying anthology I've read in years.” — K.L. Young, Executive Editor, Strange Aeons Magazine “With fifteen talented writers and a subject that is both evocative and memorable, Rhonda Parrish’s new anthology, Scarecrow, is no straw man. Like any good scarecrow, this anthology is truly outstanding in its field. Don’t be scared to pick this up and give it a read.” — Steve Vernon, author of Tatterdemon |