Merrow, Ananda Braxton-Smith
All my body was impatient. There was a life being made for me somewhere and all I had to do was get there.
It’s in me to notice things. I listen. The earwigs nattering about, slipping my pitying looks. I know what they say: she was just like me. My mam. Nothing but the sea to look upon. They say she was a merrow. Gone home to her people under the sea. Maybe they’re right. If so, what does that make me? Neither one thing nor the other. An in-between. I just want the truth is all. But how can you want something you don’t know?
I do know that the merrow’s song is out there. Lonely and proud. It drags you toward itself. It finds caves in your body and fills them with its wild calls. I’ll listen. I’ll find out the truth.