Skin bluish white, like milk with the cream skimmed off the top. Black hair, thin and clinging to her shoulders like seaweed to a rock. She is haunting, drowned and beautiful, a ghost risen from the sea. She does rise from the water, adorned in only a length of white cloth made thing and clinging by the damp, stretched taut over her figure, each tuck and curve catching her own curves. She watches you openly, face an image of longing and desire, and you wonder if it reflects your own. She seems closer, or maybe you've moved. Those are your fingers reaching out, moving as though to trace her face; her lips that move silently in song. You catch the melody in whispers and lean forward to catch more of it. It is daunting and weaves around the flowers in her hair: yellow poppies, romarin, and white and gold blooming narcissus. You can hear the song clearly now, the music is almost a tangible thing and you lean in to taste. Bloon on the moon, the moon beneath her eyelids, the skin around them green... But her eyes are not the moon. It doesn't matter, her flowers are in your hair, her hands on your face; the skin on them smooth and firm, not cracked and spider-webbed as one would expect by someone emerging from the sea. Cold crawls beneath your skin. She draws a breath and sucks you in.
Art by Jacob Sutton
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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