Sirene

* Authors Note: Hello Readers, this is the first ten pages of my short story called Sirene. I wrote this while learning how to write a short story from my mentor and I am very proud with how it turned out.  If you like what you're reading and check out my book on Amazon. *

It was a perfect morning on the, a small atoll in the Caribbean. The sun was shining brilliantly and there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. Unlike the day before with its grey, cool and blustery rain that had coated the beach in misery, the wind was just right, not blowing too hard or too light. The breeze rubbed up against the houses like a purring cat awakening from slumber and the Royal palm trees were making soft tap-like noises against the burnt-orange clay tiled roofs of the warm pastel-colored dwellings that make the island look like a Gauguin painting. The soothing puffs of wind shifted the blue, red and white national flag of France slowly back and forth on the harbormaster's solitary flagpole which was the first thing any visitor sees when they round the breakwater and arrive at the island's protected harbor. Not surprisingly, the crisp briny smell of the ocean was ever present and carried inland by the wind. The scent of fresh bread from the bakery down the street intertwined with the occasional sea-driven gusts and the pleasant aroma of freshly baked pies and island biscuits permeated the sea air. In a word, the air smelled "delicious." As Dad, Mom, Jamey, and I headed downstairs, our mouth's watered in anticipation, and we longed for the baker's sweet buttery pastries from his narrow storefront shop on the tiny main street. Quite simply, it was an unspoiled day made for nothing important but sitting in the sun, to relax and daydream.

But like the calm before yesterday's unexpected storm, a sudden loud noise broke the morning solitude from farther down the normally quiet island street. On Sainte Marie, people typically travel on bikes and occasionally in tiny cars that range from brand new sporty convertible Minis to old rust bucket trucks from the 1950's. Each morning, people line up to try to get to the other side of Sainte Marie where most of the "natives" are employed by the solitary large resort that serves as the destination for countless Midwesterners on weeklong holidays during the winter months. The native islanders generally move smoothly and speedily passing any slow-moving car by going down the middle of the street or just weaving back and forth. And, when anyone gets in their way the drivers almost always sound their horns repeatedly and loudly. Yelling and hollering normally follows as if they really think that makes anyone move faster. Sometimes I wonder, "Why hasn't someone gotten killed?"

After a few minutes, the strident garish noise that originated from somewhere down the cobble stone street began to fade away into silence. Unexpectedly, it was astonishingly replaced by soft music from the hidden ground speakers that lined the garden of our rented hacienda. In a matter of what seemed like seconds, the island turned back into a tropical island paradise. Light violin music mingled with the calming salty air. Then, a piano softly joined sounding as if two musicians were playing an all-too-brief-duet on the shaded back porch.

The Bananaquit, a resident indigent bird species that populates the island, intertwined with the music like a slightly off-key church choir. Like the "artistes," we couldn't see these tiny miniature sopranos because they were hidden in the bushes of the crimson Flamboyant trees that lined the yard. The sweet almost pungent smell of these particular trees attracts these small yellow and brown birds, and they twittered their endlessly high-pitch chorus that sounded oddly similar, at times, to a person's whistle. Earlier this morning, my mother had sat on the balcony trying to imitate their spirited songs while watching her feathered friends flitter from branch to branch on the vibrant purple Lantana trees in the shadows. Most people think these lovely little birds are just being playful, but to my twelve-year-old mind it sounds more like an elegant dance as they tango with each other.

After listening to the sounds of nature for a while, my family and I exited the all-too charming bungalow that had been our new temporary home for the past three days. My older brother Jamey and I were on a long winter break and our parents had decided to take us to the Virgin Islands for a nice relaxing "family" vacation. Even though a few things reminded me of home, it felt more like as if we were on a magical journey to the south of France. The wind caressed our faces with its light touch as we turned left and made our way out the front door towards the silver dining chairs that were set on the dark wooden porch. Looking out over the railing, the balcony offered a magnificent view of the island and the ocean that almost entirely consumed the sugary white beach. Lining the corners of the wooden barrier were different shades of the Hibiscus flower ranging from a roaring red to the soft calm pink. Each flower tried to spread themselves up and over the wrought iron to show off their magnificence. The bright sun felt warm after coming outside from the cool air conditioner that filled the inside of our impermanent home. It was a perfect day to sit outside and heartily consume a breakfast of tasty crisp bread and freshly squeezed juice from the many fruit trees that lined the four-block main street of the island.