Cuentos capturados – por Bill Tiepelman
Siren of Silk and Bloom
The night the tide forgot itself, the sea laid out a runway—glossy, blue, and just a smidge dramatic—so I could make an entrance. I am Lyris, the mermaid who sews gossip into lace and turns rumors into roses. My tail is stitched in secret languages: peony for “yes, but make it interesting,” carnation for “tell me more,” and rose for “you’ll never recover from this compliment.” Waves combed themselves smooth as I glided into the cove, hair perfumed with salt, moon, and just a trace of “don’t even think about it.” The surface mirrored me back like a perfectly polished vanity: coral-lip smile, shoulder-bare confidence, sleeves of white lace that whispered, we were born to flirt with the horizon.
Fishermen’s lanterns dotted the cliffs like nosy fireflies. Somewhere a gull choked on a seashell trying to act casual. I posed on a velvet-blue sandbar and the water sighed; it does that sometimes, dramatic thing. From the reeds, a trio of otters held up a sign made of driftwood: “Welcome Back, Lyris.” The font was… earnest. I blew them a kiss and they fainted in unison. It’s a whole thing when I come home—shell paparazzi, kelp press, and the jellyfish who insist on flashing when I pass.
You should know that my embroidery is not simple decoration. Every bloom was bargained for at the Meridian Market, a midnight bazaar where sea-witches sell small miracles by the spool. A rose means I once kept a sailor’s secret. A cluster of forget-me-nots means I failed gloriously at not falling for anyone that week. The lace at my shoulders? That’s a covenant with the wind. It agrees to flirt with my hair, not my balance. In return, I promise to be unforgettable enough to justify a gentle breeze in a storm warning.
People say mermaids sing. I don’t “sing” so much as negotiate in major key. Tonight, I crooned a warm-up scale and the moon shifted two inches to my good side. Photogenic lighting is a basic right for ocean goddesses and I will not be taking questions. My voice rolled through the cove like velvet poured from a high shelf, carrying a chorus of luxury wall art fantasies, floral mermaid tail illusions, and romantic ocean fantasy promises that make sailors vow to buy better frames for their memories.
That’s when he arrived—Orin, a surface-dweller with tidewater eyes and the posture of someone who forgot he was gorgeous. He paddled a creaky rowboat like it was a first date and he’d brought the wrong flowers. His boat wore a crooked name in chipped paint: Maybe. As in, “maybe fate, maybe foolish, maybe worth it.” I admired the honesty. He looked at me the way mortals look at summer—like it’s obviously temporary, which is why you must savor it reckless and barefoot.
“Evening,” he said, because men at the edge of myth lose vocabulary faster than oars. I answered with a smile embroidered in underwater beauty and coastal home décor temptation. “Evening,” I echoed, and his boat bumped a sandbar, blushing in wood. He apologized to the boat. Gentle men make me weak for a minute and a half; ruthless men make me bored in ten seconds. He was the first sort, all clumsy reverence and quiet chaos, like he’d rehearsed a hundred goodbyes and just found the wrong hello.
Orin produced a bouquet of land flowers wrapped in a map, then immediately tried to rescue the map from the tide. I took the flowers and let the sea decide the route. “It’s fine,” I said. “The ocean already knows where we’re going.” (Reader, it didn’t. The ocean is a maximalist improviser.) The map swirled away, pointing everywhere at once, as if to say: plot twists ahead.
We talked like people do when the air feels carbonated. He sketched boats for a living, the sort that become real if you believe hard enough and also know how to use a hammer. I stitched stories into fabric, the sort that become real if you wear them to breakfast and refuse to apologize. He asked about my tail, the garden of it—how the blossoms stayed so vivid beneath the waves. “Because beauty is a rumor I keep re-starting,” I said. “And because I water them with other people’s underestimates.”
A wind came up, tidy and flattering, bringing the spice of night-blooming plankton. The sleeves of my lace trailed on the surface, sketching white calligraphy. Orin stared, the good kind of staring, the museum gaze that says this matters. “You look like you could rewrite weather,” he said. “I prefer to annotate it,” I replied. “Footnotes with better lighting.” He laughed the embarrassed laugh of a man who has just met someone who keeps a chandelier in her personality.
As conversation warmed, he revealed the secret of the rowboat: he’d built it from his old front porch. “Hard to leave a home,” he shrugged, “so I brought the part that faced the sunsets.” Oh, the poetry of it. My heart did a pirouette in its seashell. Not love—please, I’m not irresponsible before Part II—but definite interest with sparkly accessories. The kind that makes you wonder what his coffee order is and whether he can dance or at least apologize artfully for not dancing.
He reached over the gunwale, fingers an inch from the lace cuff at my wrist. “May I?” he asked, as if the sea had taught him consent. (It had. The sea slaps the careless.) I let him touch the edge of a rose at my hip. It pulsed warm—roses believe in drama—and then bloomed half a shade deeper. His breath caught. “You enchant fabric,” he whispered. “Fabric enchants me,” I said. “I just return the favor in kind words and better silhouettes.”
A far wave curled its finger, beckoning. The otters, revived from earlier swooning, started to hum the background music from a romance nobody had financed yet. The jellyfish dimmed their scandalous little lanterns to “mood.” I smiled at Orin, at the rowboat named Maybe, at the night that felt like a soft open. “Come back tomorrow,” I said. “Bring the part of yourself you kept safe too long.” He nodded as if he’d been waiting to hear exactly that.
He pushed off the sandbar, the boat swiveling toward the passage, then hesitated. “What should I call you?” he asked. I pretended to think, though the answer was sewn into every seam I wore. “Call me the rumor you want to keep,” I said. “But if you need syllables, Lyris works.” He mouthed it—Lyris—as the tide carried him away, and I felt the name stitch itself brighter across my tail in small secret threads.
When he vanished behind the rocks, the sea pressed against my ankles, excited. “Calm,” I told it, “we are not rushing a plot because you like a meet-cute.” The water fizzed anyway. I sprawled on the blue sandbar, chin propped on lace, gaze on the moon. Tomorrow would need new flowers, maybe something wild, a little unhinged. Unexpected beauty is my favorite kind—preferably the sort that walks back at dawn with paint on his hands and a question between his teeth.
And that, darling reader, is how I scheduled trouble under starlight—carefully, seductively, with excellent wardrobe, and room for upgrades.
The Trouble with ‘Maybe’
Morning, in my part of the sea, is a soft gold conspiracy. The sun creeps in like it’s late for something delicious, scattering light across the water in perfect little spotlight puddles. I was already awake, lounging on my favorite rock (strategically angled for optimal hip line), sewing a particularly sassy patch of marigolds onto my tail. Marigolds say, “I dare you” in flower-language. They’re useful.
From beyond the reef, I heard it—the awkward thunk-thunk of oars hitting the water slightly out of sync. Orin was back. Earlier than expected, which meant he’d either missed me terribly or been chased out of bed by something less poetic, like a crab invasion. When he rounded the kelp grove, I nearly choked on my own smirk. He’d upgraded the Maybe. The boat now sported a strip of deep teal paint along the hull, and a tiny mast with a square of white canvas. On it, in careful brush strokes, was a single blooming rose.
“You redecorated,” I called. “You inspired me,” he said, a little breathless, as though speaking to me required extra oxygen. “Also, my neighbor’s kid is a graffiti artist and owed me a favor.” I traced the rose on the sail with my eyes. “You know that flower means ‘I accept your challenge,’ right?” His grin was half-crooked, half-daring. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Orin brought breakfast—bread so fresh it steamed in the morning air, a jar of honey the color of late summer, and a flask of something he refused to name until I’d tried it. I took a sip and almost fell backward off my rock. Coffee. Real, strong, land-grown coffee, kissed with cinnamon and something darker, almost sinful. “You’re bribing me,” I accused. “Absolutely,” he said, handing me the bread like it was an apology.
We ate in companionable chaos, crumbs feeding the fish, honey streaking my wrist where he licked it away before thinking about it too hard. His face flushed warm; mine didn’t, because blushing is something I outsource to the roses on my tail. They bloomed in a quiet, knowing way, just enough to make him blink twice.
The tide was especially nosy that morning, carrying every word away to spread among the coral. I told Orin about the midnight market, about trading my voice once for a bolt of silver-thread lace (and how I stole it back the next day with a song and a little misdirection). He told me about the porch wood in his boat, the cat who’d once claimed it as her throne, and the way she’d follow him down to the dock every evening like she was checking for mermaids.
“I think she suspected,” I said. “Oh, she absolutely knew,” he replied. “She’d give me this look when I came back empty-handed, like I’d failed at errands.” I imagined the cat—a tiny, whiskered chaperone with no patience for my kind of trouble—and found myself oddly charmed.
Halfway through a story about a storm that had stolen his favorite hat, Orin reached into the boat and pulled out something swaddled in cloth. He handed it to me with that same uncertain reverence from the night before. I unwrapped it to find a small, hand-carved box, each side inlaid with intricate designs—waves, roses, and a single lace pattern that almost perfectly matched my sleeves.
“It’s not magic,” he said quickly, “but it’s solid cedar, and I thought—well, you might like somewhere to keep… whatever it is mermaids keep.” I ran my fingers over the carvings, the grain warm under my touch. “You have no idea how dangerous it is to give me something this pretty,” I said. “I’ll keep you just for the matching accessories.”
The otters returned, swimming in lazy loops, carrying a garland of seaweed and shells between them like they were auditioning for a wedding I hadn’t approved. “Not yet,” I told them firmly. Orin looked between us. “Do I want to know what that was about?” “No,” I said, smiling in a way that promised an answer in the most unhelpful possible timeframe.
We drifted toward the outer reef, the water turning that impossible turquoise that makes humans consider moving underwater until they remember taxes. Orin told me he wanted to see the coral gardens, the ones lit from within by bioluminescent plankton at night. “You’ll need a guide,” I said. “And hazard pay.” “What’s the hazard?” he asked. “Me,” I said simply. His grin was worth the line.
By midday, we’d anchored near the gardens. The coral rose in spirals and domes, painted in colors the land wouldn’t dare invent. Schools of fish moved like gossip—fast, bright, and impossible to catch. I slipped into the water without ceremony, letting the current press against the lace, turning it into a second set of waves. Orin followed, far less graceful but infinitely more endearing.
We swam through arches of coral and into wide, blue plazas where the light fell in sheets. I showed him the jellyfish that blinked like lanterns, the shrimp that polished coral as if auditioning for housekeeper roles, the anemones that opened like gossiping mouths. He listened like every word might be a secret worth keeping, which is the fastest way to my attention.
At one point, I swam ahead and hid behind a fan of purple coral. When he caught up, I popped out, wrapping my lace sleeves lightly around his wrist. He startled, laughed, and pulled me closer in a way that didn’t pretend it wasn’t intentional. His pulse thrummed under my touch, a rhythm I could’ve matched if I cared to. (I did. A little.)
When we surfaced, the boat had drifted closer. The rose on the sail caught the afternoon light, and for a moment I could see the entire arc of the day ahead—coffee in the mornings, trouble at noon, and nights that never quite ended. Dangerous thoughts, even for me.
“Stay,” he said suddenly, as if the word had escaped before he could wrestle it down. I tilted my head. “Stay where?” “In the boat. On the porch. Wherever the sunset happens.” He said it like a plea disguised as an invitation, and I felt the tug of it deep, somewhere between the roses and the marigolds.
“I’m not the staying kind,” I reminded him. “I’m the return-and-redecorate kind.” He smiled, slow. “Then just make sure you keep coming back. I can repaint forever.”
The sky began to gold itself into evening, and we let the tide pull us homeward. The otters trailed behind, humming again. The jellyfish stayed dim, perhaps out of respect, or maybe they were simply tired of being accused of mood lighting. Back at the sandbar, Orin helped me out of the water—not because I needed help, but because his hands looked good against the lace. I didn’t stop him.
Before he left, he tucked a folded scrap of paper into my cedar box. “For later,” he said, and rowed away without another word. I didn’t open it until the moon was up. It was a sketch of me—tail blooming with roses, lace catching the light, head tilted back in laughter. Across the bottom, in careful letters, he’d written: Rumor Worth Keeping.
Reader, I kept it. And maybe the man, too. But that’s getting ahead of myself.
The Forecast Called for Chaos
Two days passed before Orin reappeared. Which was fine. I am not a woman—mermaid—goddess—whatever—who checks the horizon like a lovesick gull. I had embroidery to finish, secrets to trade, and a particularly judgmental crab to avoid (don’t ask). But still… every time I surfaced, my eyes drifted toward the reef. You know. Accidentally.
When he did arrive, it was not in the Maybe. No. This time, Orin showed up steering an absurd raft built from old wine barrels, driftwood, and what appeared to be the remains of someone’s patio furniture. Flying proudly above it: the rose sail. “Why?” I called. “Because,” he shouted back, “the boat is drying from a paint job, and the neighbor’s cat stole the oars.” I couldn’t argue. The raft had personality.
He clambered onto my sandbar with the grace of a man who knows exactly how many ways he could fall and has accepted them all. In his arms was a wooden crate sloshing with seawater. Inside: three bottles of champagne and a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. “What’s the occasion?” I asked. “Surviving the week,” he said. “And… delivering this.” He unwrapped the bundle to reveal a dress. Not just any dress—my lace, my flowers, my tail translated into silk and stitched embroidery. Land-wearable mermaid. It was breathtaking, and I do not say that lightly.
“You made this?” I asked. “I bribed someone with champagne,” he admitted. “But the design is mine.” I ran my hands over the fabric, each petal familiar, each swirl of thread like an inside joke between us. “Orin,” I said, “you’ve just guaranteed yourself three more chapters of trouble.”
We opened the champagne right there, sea foam hissing at the corks like it was jealous. Otters arrived within minutes, demanding tiny cups. One jellyfish hovered close, clearly angling for a toast. We drank, laughed, and somehow ended up in the water, the crate bobbing beside us like an eager extra. “You’re a terrible influence,” he said, watching me swim lazy circles around him. “I’m your favorite bad decision,” I corrected.
As twilight deepened, the sky turned scandalous—pink bleeding into violet, clouds lounging like they owned the place. Orin suggested we row the raft to the cliffside pools where warm springs bubbled up through the rock. “Romantic,” I noted. “And suspiciously convenient.” “It’s only suspicious if you don’t enjoy it,” he countered.
The pools were steaming, rimmed in black stone polished smooth by centuries of tide and whispers. I slipped into one, the warmth curling around me like a lover’s arm. Orin followed, wincing at the heat before sinking in with a satisfied sigh. “This,” he said, “is better than coffee.” “Nothing’s better than coffee,” I replied. “But this is… a close second.”
We talked about absurd things—whether whales gossip, which stars look the most smug, how many roses I could possibly embroider before running out of scandal. I told him about the time I’d convinced a prince to declare war on boredom (he lost). He told me about his failed attempt to build a floating bakery (he ran out of flour and patience simultaneously).
Somewhere between the second and third bottle, a rainstorm wandered in from the east. Not a violent one—just a curtain of warm drops turning the surface of the pool into liquid sequins. The world blurred, soft and golden. Orin reached up to push wet hair from my face, and I let him. “You look like you belong to every myth I’ve ever heard,” he said. “Wrong,” I told him. “They belong to me.”
And then, because it felt inevitable, we kissed. It wasn’t polite, or practiced, or even remotely subtle—it was the kind of kiss that rewrites afternoons, the kind you’ll still taste in the middle of some dull Tuesday years later. The rain applauded. The jellyfish, the little voyeur, pulsed brighter.
When we finally surfaced for air, both figuratively and literally, Orin grinned that troublemaker’s grin. “You’re staying tonight,” he said—not asked, but said. “Am I?” I asked, one eyebrow lifting. “You are,” he insisted, “because I need someone to help me finish this champagne, and because the raft is absolutely going to sink on the way back in the dark.”
Reader, the raft did sink. Slowly. Spectacularly. We laughed until we nearly swallowed the bay. By the time we made it back to the sandbar, the moon was high, the roses on my tail were fully awake, and Orin was wearing half of the lace dress like a scarf. We collapsed on the warm sand, damp, barefoot, unapologetic.
“Tomorrow?” he asked, eyes half-closed. “Tomorrow,” I agreed. And that was how the Maybe became a certainty, how a rumor turned into a habit, and how I, Lyris—the Siren of Silk and Bloom—found myself adding a new flower to my tail. A lily. For beginnings. For unexpected beauty. For the sheer audacity of saying yes.
The sea hummed approval, the moon angled for my good side, and somewhere, the neighbor’s cat plotted her next theft. Life, as they say, was good.
If you’ve fallen for Lyris as much as Orin did (though hopefully without the raft sinking), you can bring a piece of her world home. Imagine her embroidered tail and lace-sleeved elegance gracing your walls as a Framed Print, or shimmering in your space as a luminous Acrylic Print. For moments when you want to send a little ocean magic, she’s ready as an enchanting Greeting Card, carrying whispers of coastal romance through the post.
Need a touch of siren energy in your everyday? Jot down your own stories, sketches, or scandalous sea gossip in a Spiral Notebook featuring her elegant portrait. Or, if you prefer your ocean goddess under the sun, take her along on your next getaway as a luxurious, oversized Beach Towel—perfect for wrapping yourself in silk-and-bloom style while plotting your next adventure.
Whether framed on your wall, sent through the mail, scribbled with dreams, or stretched across warm sand, Siren of Silk and Bloom is ready to turn your everyday into something unforgettable.
