Creative Corner

EDIT: Deadline is today, August 17th at 14:30 fr time.


@Kesler thank you so much for picking me! I do have an issue with timed writing still so I can see your point but I'm glad you liked it!

prompt is: "He/She had given two gifts to me; the instrument, and what was inside. However, to get what was inside, I would have to give up the instrument's song. Forever."

Sorry it's not perfect. You don't have to use the actual quote, it's more the idea of an instrument containing something valuable that has to be broken to get it.

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@lessthan3


Symphony

I played at the beginning of the world.
I was younger then, and the world was, too, gases igniting into blazing symphonies of energy. I played combustions, played hydrogen into helium, and the glide of the bow against my violin was a warm sound that vibrated all the way through my bones.
Around me the symphony played too, flutes singing the stars into existence, clarinets shaping the planets, the pounding of the drums marking out the passage of time. I could see the conductor's baton, but nothing of them; they were void against void, light against light, only the knowledge that there was a set of sheet music behind this, a plan, and we were following it.
I was the one who played the beginning of life.
It was a planet pitted by asteroid strikes, roiling with liquid water. I played the primordial goo. I played the passage of evolution with my fellow violins, plant into furred reptile into leaping mammal, dinosaur into bird. The notes sang high; trumpets celebrated; and apes stood from the ground and began to cobble together tools and intelligence.
We played history, an entire movement in the blink of an eye, geological time-wise, but the song was speeding up, growing tumultuous. We played blood on metal, wooden ships sailing over strange seas, white temples and great fires, handshakes and speeches.
We played bombs. We played violence. We played an asteroid, tilting through space, towards a planet like a blue marble.
The song soared towards a vicious crescendo, and I knew what would happen. I could see the rubble spraying up, dust obscuring that blue, voices pleading for help. Voices praying.
To me. To my fellow musicians. To the conductor.
The show must go on.
But those screams --
I had played since the beginning of time and yet no measure had ever tugged my heart as the sound-memory of those screams did.
I took the neck of my violin, my faithful companion, and smashed it against the chair, the ground, the world, the conductor, something, and it broke in two along a jagged wound. I thought perhaps my heart had broken too.
The cost of more than seven billion lives was my ability to create.
The cost of my ability to choose was all I had done that mattered.
I left my orchestra behind in the silence, the dark, the cold.
The void grew, and all that was warm dissipated, and all that was solid drifted apart. I had not averted it. I had only bought time for a few short-lived bits of protein.
Entropy.
I played at the beginning of the universe.
I would not be there to stop its end from coming to pass.
I broke my instrument and inside was salvation for more than seven billion lives, for the planet they called the entire world.
It would have to be worth it.

@lessthan3

I was once given a gift of music, a harp that played a beautiful tune. It needed none to strum it, for it sang its own joy freely.

People would gather to listen to its songs, and they would dance and cheer. It didn't take me long to realise that there was some magic involved in its tune, for anyone who heard it forgot how to be sad. There were no more worries or doubts, no hesitations in movement or speech. Everyone was beautiful and proper, in the presence of such an instrument.

One day I sat near it, alone in my house, and listened to its soft melodies as I drifted off to sleep.

It was in that half-slumber that I first heard it, a little voice that spoke in a plucking rhythm, almost as if its words were simple notes.

It came from within the harp itself, and it cried out for my help.

It told me of its story, how once it had been a man - a musician to be precise. His music had entranced many people, and he had become very well known. One day he had been asked to play for the king, and he had played his best song. Everyone had cheered. Everyone, except the king.

The king had scorned his music, and had not heard the beauty of his song. In a rage, the musician had sought revenge, and paid a witch to curse the king. But in his greed, the curse had backfired and struck him down instead.

The curse trapped his soul inside the harp, dooming him to play for forever and a day, bringing joy to everyone around him while he remained miserable and alone.

I wanted to feel sad for the little voice inside the harp, but its music still played on so sweetly, and my heart sat peacefully in my chest.

I could have smashed that harp, and set his soul free, but the very curse that kept him there stopped me from wanting it to end, and I could not bring myself to shatter its sweet melody.

I sank into my slumber, as the music played on, for forever and a day.

@lessthan3

It was my father's flute. He gave it to me when he left. I was supposed to watch over it until he came back, but he never did. The war took him. That terrible war. He told me that the flute was special. That it came from his father and his father before him and so on for as far as anyone could remember. Now it fell to me. His daughter.

The war had been going for years now, but I never understood why. The real reasons had been lost. Through centuries of fighting, people had started to fight for honor. What honor? Is there honor in killing your brothers? Why was I the only one who understood this? From the time I was ten I understood this. Many had lost their loved ones to it, but I was the only one who knew something had to be done.

I held on to that flute. It was all that was left of my father. It held inside it my hope for peace, my love for my father. So, now, at sixteen, I go out. I am the voice of reason. I lead the protests against this war. My mother would be worried if she wasn't absorbed by her depression, if she hadn't lost the other half of her soul to that war, but it had happened, and her downfall was my creation.

At every event, every march, every picket, the flute was there, strapped onto my back, like a great weapon. It became the symbol of our unrest. The flute was what each of us had lost: families, homes, friends. It became an icon.

No matter how hard we tried, our protest fell on deaf ears. We were pushed aside. No one wanted to hear that they were killing for nothing, so they ignored us. I now know what has to be done. I will stop this war.




It has been two decades since the end of the war, two decades since the flute broke. My sister ended the war. She couldn't appeal to the minds behind the war, instead she went to the front lines. She made the soldiers realize what they were destroying.

The armies were lined up, guns drawn. She went to the command center. She begged for it to stop. Again she was pushed aside. Why should the general of the army listen to a naive little girl? Outraged at being ignored, she decided it would be the last time.

Out into the battlefield she walked. She stood in the line of fire, and she yelled for the fighting to stop. The guns fell silent. The general yelled at the soldiers to resume, to not let one little girl tear apart their plans for victory. A gun was raised. A shot rang out.

My sister fell to the ground. She was gasping for air as blood flowed into her lungs. Her flute broke into pieces. Through the pain, I'm sure she could hear the soldiers yelling. She could hear them refusing orders. She heard no more shots.

When they recovered her body, she was smiling. In her dying breaths I believe she saw her dreams for peace, her father's memory escaping from the flute's broken husk.

@lessthan3

I remember that old case. It always sat by my piano. The case was black and plastic. There was fabric covering the plastic. It was fraying at the seams and had tears in it. In some places, the fabric was wearing down. Inside, it held very precious cargo. A redwood violin. My mother had made it. She had worked in her wood shop for many weeks, to fashion the beautiful instrument. She made it from an enormous redwood tree in our backyard. She called some of the men from our church to help her cut it down. She sold all the spare wood to carpenters and old widows. I remember seeing her in her shop, with a huge smile on her face, carefully sculpting the violin. Making the violin was the last thing I remember seeing her do that made her happy.

My oldest sister died soon after the violin was finished. She was in a car accident. Before the accident, my mother would play her violin all the time. It was the violin she played before she made the redwood one. She said that it reminded her of when my father was alive. Her music always filled the home. When I wasn't doing homework, I would play piano along with her. My two older sisters would sing or dance to the music. Those times were incredible, but then the accident happened. My mother stopped playing. She put the violin in the case one day and never played again. In the beginning, I would play the piano to try and make her happy, but after a while she asked me to stop playing so much. She started locking herself in her room. She didn't smile anymore. She didn't take care of us. My sister made meals for us and tried to get my mother to eat. She never did.

Eventually, she was hospitalized. They pumped her full of vitamins, but she fought it. She started to lose her mind. She always told us that our oldest sister was her entire life after our father died. It hurt, but we knew that she wasn't right in the mind. One night, when none of the nurses were in her room, she pulled out her IV drip. My sister and I were in the waiting room. She was supposed to go in for her life saving surgery in just a few hours. The doctors told us that she didn't suffer when she died, but we could see the sadness behind their facade. I felt numb. My sister cried for what seemed like hours. She was still crying when we got home. I kept it in. I knew I had to be strong for her.

My mother had written a will. She left me everything, except her old violin. She left that to my sister. I had received her redwood violin. A few months after her death, my sister came to me. She told me that we should start playing music again. We should start filling the home with music again. I agreed. She immediately started taking violin lessons. I wanted to take them too, but she insisted that I leave the redwood violin in it's case. I practiced piano while she took her lessons. We continued our schooling as well. When my sister would come back from lessons, we would play together. The music wasn't as good as before, but it was passionate. We slowly got better and better.

One day, after we had both graduated high school, a neighbor heard our playing. He told us that we should join the local classical music competition. We figured it would've made mother proud. We joined the competition and won. We continued on to state, national, and even world competition. We were very proud and knew that if our mother could see us, she would be very pleased with us. We came home after the competition and hung the plague up on the wall next to our family photo. In the photo was my mother, father, my two sisters, the old violin, and myself. I smiled and moved to place the trophy on the back of the piano.

I stood in the middle of the room and looked around. I supposed that I should do more to make myself happy. I loved music and wanted to make my mother proud. I decided to hold a garage sale and turn my downstairs into a music studio. I would fill the house with music and all the trophies. I would do what my mother was never able to. I made little signs and posted them all over the neighborhood. My sister and I moved the couches out to the driveway. We moved chairs, tables, lamps, useless kitchen utensils, and other such things. I picked up the case of the redwood violin. It hadn't been taken out of its case since that day my oldest sister died. I decided it needed to go. Every time I looked at it, it made me sad. It was so full of sadness. Sadness from my mother's, father's, and sister's deaths. I couldn't handle it anymore.

I set the case down on a table outside and opened it. Dust floated out of the case and filled the air around me. I waved it away and gently pulled out the violin. I ran my fingers over the strings and holes. As I was staring at it, my sister demanded that I bring the violin to her, so she could look at it. I held it close to my chest and walked down the driveway. Suddenly, I slipped on loose gravel. I didn't have time to react. I fell onto the violin. I felt it shatter under my body. I pushed myself up and rubbed the sore spot on my chest. When I pulled my hand away, it was covered in blood. I didn't care, the violin was in pieces. The strings were broken, the bridge was shattered, pieces started to slide down our gentle sloping driveway. I took a deep breath to keep myself from crying.

Then, I saw something. A little white note card, lying among the ruined violin. I picked it up and read it.

My sweet, my love. You mean everything to me. This violin is for you. I made for you, in memory of you. You taught me to play and let music into my home. Our children know a better appreciation of music. I'm sad that you left us at the time that you did, but at least you saw their first recitals. I know that their memories of you will only be good ones. I hope that they can say the same about me. I hope that I can be the woman you deserve.

I felt tears fall onto my lap as I read. My sister rushed over. She tried to take of my wounds, but I shoved the note into her hands. She read over it quickly, but turned back to me.

"She's talking about Dad." I whispered. It was hard to talk. My chest felt like it was on fire.

"I know. Let me take care of you." She shoved my arms to my sides and lifted my shirt. She gasped and pulled out her phone to call 9-1-1. She spoke to them quickly and ran inside to grab some gauze to pack the wound. She had dropped the note into the pieces of the violins. I held it tightly in my hand. Everything started to go black. I could feel my hand trying to let go of the note, but I held onto it with all my might.


I breathed my last breath and slipped into the void.

@lessthan3

“What is this?” I asked as I looked over the lute curiously. My coming of age ceremony had just ended, and my mother offered me a smile like the setting sun--Full of warmth and calm surrender that would carry me through the night and into the next dawn.

“It’s my other gift to you, child. Treat it well and it will always play true for you. Rumor is that it carries the magic of the clan within it, the power to heal and ease even the greatest of ailments.”

I gave my mother a brilliant smile in return and hugged the lute to my chest. “Thank you, Mother. I will always cherish it,” I promised.

True to the legends of the lute, it played beautifully every time I touched my fingers to the strings. The music carried throughout the camps that my travelling family pitched each night. People laughed and danced and sang to the tunes that leapt from my lute’s strings. With ease, I brought people to tears, and in the next few refrains, I had them leaping for joy.

The power of the music knew no bounds.

But then my sister fell ill. It was a slow and steady sickness that lurked at the edges of her mind. It slowly stole away her consciousness and her desire to eat, drink, and live. Her body grew thin and frail with passing days.

I took my lute into her tent one evening. If the instrument had the power to heal, I would play until my fingers bled and blistered. I would save my sister.

I started to pick at the strings, inspiring a haunting melody to resonate throughout the small space, surrounding my sister in the agony and sorrow that permeated my being. I tried to coax it into gentle soothing chords, but the ache of my heart was too great. My sister gave no notice to the music.

I played all that night and into the next with no success. Frustration turned my music harsh and cold. It was then I stopped and glared at the instrument, on that fateful second night.
“You’re useless!,” I cried at it. “She said the power to heal was within you…”

My rage turned to shock as I stared at the hollow wooden belly of the lute. I hesitated a moment. If I was wrong, I would lose my coming of age gift to a faulty whim.

But if I was right…

The instrument shattered against the hard ground underneath the fabric of the tent.

My sister revived the next morning.

I sat, staring out at the pale grey horizon of predawn as my fingers moved on invisible strings, playing illusionary melodies.

“The music isn’t gone, young lady.”

I turned to look at my mother who was watching me with a proud smile.

“But I broke the lute,” I choked. Tears blurred the edges of my vision.

“And, because you did, that music now lives on within you. You are the music. Carry it with you and into the next generation. The lute will appear to you when it is time to test your daughter, my love.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away into the morning mist.

I met the rising sun as I rose to my feet and started to dance.

@lessthan3

I couldn't look away from the violin. I sat there on my bed, hands fisted over my pajama bottoms, and considered the instrument before me. It was a beautiful thing, I knew, made of three types of woods that had been fashioned together with smooth curves and divots. The sides were detailed with black swirling ink that took on simple flower designs. These had always been my favourite, and I resisted the urge to run my fingers over the familiar designs.

This was not my violin.

It was familiar to me, as my own hands were, and I could not look at it. Every time I did, I only saw him. I saw his eyes, as brown as wood themselves, and alive with the vitality of music. I saw him performing, the bowstring becoming something divine in his hands. He had a way of turning music into something more, and even now the vestiges of what he played me sang in my mind.

They were only echoes.

I reminded myself of this again and again; memory was not the same as living the event. The past could never be returned to, I knew. I knew.

I looked at this instrument, his instrument, and realized my fists were shaking. With anger? Sadness? I missed him - oh, did I miss him - and here was part of his soul before me, left behind. But the violin was empty without him—it was only a shell without his fingers to play it.

My vision swam with tears and anger, and before I knew it I had grabbed the violin by it's neck and swung it in one fierce arc against the wall. Although the wall was dented with the impact, the violin didn't stand a chance in comparison. I tore it apart with one vicious hit after another, the wood splintering beneath my fingers.

I hated this violin. I hated how I had loved it, once. I hated how he had loved it with his entire being. I hated how he was gone, he was gone, he was gone.

Again and again I hit the wall with the violin, until it was nothing more than strips of wood at my feet. My knees thudded against the floor, hands limp at my sides, as I looked at the mess I had made. The shell, destroyed.

And yet, there. I saw a slip of white in the middle of the wood pieces. My fingers rooted it out, hands shaking still, and brought it up to look at.


His handwriting. It was unmistakable. I would know the slanting lines of his letters even in death, and this was something he would do, wasn't it? A simple note, buried in the heart of his abandoned instrument.

I hated him. I loved him.

@lessthan3

Her voice was my favorite thing to hear. It was the first thing I could hear in the morning and what I fell asleep to at night.

I always told her she had the voice of an angel. She finally listened to me.

Not long after, she had landed a contract with one of the big record labels. We were both ecstatic and drank more than our fair share of alcohol that night.

Over the weeks and months she would do her best to get back home to see me. To report on what was going on in the big music world.

Then there was a month with no visits. I tried calling but she was always too busy for long conversations. I forgave her the first time. And the second. I forgave her when she missed our anniversary and Christmas.

She finally came back just after Valentine’s day. She had changed but still I stayed.

I forgave her so many times and did the best I could to keep up with her life by watching her interviews and reading articles about her. She rarely called and I had long stopped trying. She did visit occasionally and I was still there waiting for her. It all changed when I saw that one interview.

“Are you involved with anyone?” They had asked. Her answer was a laugh and a shake of her head. I couldn’t watch the rest that interview.

She came back that next month. It may have been the first time she had visited that year and I was already getting ready for Thanksgiving by myself. I had a long time to think over what I would do in this meeting.

I was surprised that she even started crying. The beautiful voice that I had loved broke as she tried to get me to stay. My face remained blank as I placed my wedding ring on the table and walked out. I had never expected the price of my freedom could be giving up the woman I loved and her wonderful voice.