October 2025 - WINNER

When Sirin sang, her voice could only be heard by the loneliest person in the room. 

So claimed the hollow-eyed Barton Hunt, owner of the dingy Jam Factory club, where Sirin always performed. “Pray you don’t hear her,” he would croak to the crowd. “If you don’t… then someone else has it worse.” 

*** 

Sirin was led to her usual spot behind the faded curtain. Her talons clacked on the greasy boards; her feathers reeked of smoke and booze. Barton yanked on her leather lead. The collar chafed her skin. 

Sirin’s body was distinctly other. But she had the neck and face of a girl. As always, a sticky layer of makeup had been smeared across her cheeks. 

“You look beautiful,” said Barton, in his rasping voice. 

Sirin blinked her long-lashed eyes. Barton had never taught her to speak. 

“My beautiful songbird,” he croaked. 

Sirin could hear a familiar drone from the other side of the curtain. Muttering voices, sloshes of drink, the clink of an old piano. Barton lashed her to a steel pipe; back when the place had been a working factory, the pipe had been used to move jam. 

“Beautiful,” he told her, one more time. 

Then he ducked past the curtain, out onto the stage, leaving Sirin alone in the gloom. She heard muffled applause, some yells and whistles. Then Barton’s distinctive voice. 

“Ladies and gentlemen. She’s ready for you.” 

Once, years earlier, when Sirin had performed, she’d seen a woman at the front of the crowd. Skin like an eggshell. Dark velvet dress. And hanging by her throat, from a golden chain: a bejewelled, glittering brooch. 

The brooch had been wrought in the shape of a bird. It sparkled where it caught the light. A breast of white silver, a shining eye, two feet of startling blue. 

Most striking of all were its widespread wings. The brooch seemed to fly, to soar. That night, alone in her narrow cage, Sirin had spread her wings too. 

Now, the curtain lifted. Sirin was bathed in light. As always, there were mutters from the gathered crowd, where they peered through a haze of smoke. Some of them leaned forward, others pulled back. The room seemed to hold its breath. 

“Pray you don’t hear her,” rasped Barton, where he lurked by the edge of the stage. 

The piano clinked—three rising notes. Sirin began to sway. She moved her head in time with the tune, dancing as she’d been trained. Then she opened her mouth, and emptied her lungs: a low, warbling note. It rose and fell with the piano’s song. 

But no one in the crowd could hear it. They released a collective sigh of relief, dabbing the sweat from their foreheads. Some shared a look with a neighbour. You can’t hear her either? They clinked drinks. 

All the while, Sirin kept singing. 

A song, only heard by her.