There was once a boy who lived alone in a tower, cut off from the rest of the world. He would hunt for food in the surrounding forest, or swim in the sea for his fishes. He would eat in his balcony as he told himself stories, ones he'd write in his journals after. He would look on and watch the waves every day and night, always finding new things to adore.
He always played his lute at night as he looked to the night sky. Often the moon. He would play his songs with gentle swiftness, his fingers moving fluidly across its strings. Its sounds echo throughout his tower, the music accompanied by sounds of nature.
He would sing to himself most nights, and on a few, to the moon goddess as she paid her visit. She would sing for him as he did, her midnight hair fluttering with the wind as she made her descent to his balcony. She had silver eyes and a light brown complexion. In those visits, he'd silently allow her to play with his oaken hair as his ocean blue eyes looked onto his strings.
They would spend these moments with songs storytelling; he would read her the stories he wrote with a voice as calm as the breeze surrounding them. She would listen and listen, and would not hear anything else but him. In turn, she would sing the songs she'd made for him, which he'd listen the same way she would for his writing.
They would be in each other's gentle company as they paced around his tower, the beach, and the forest guided by her moonlight. They would converse as if they would never see each other again, spending every moment without hesitation. Some moments were spent in silence as they sat together by the shore to stare at the stars.
As every night came to an end, he would have a letter for her to bring home. It would be of a story he wrote based on what she'd told him moments before. She would have her own gift to give before parting in the form of a new set of strings for his lute, ones she made herself.
He would replace his old strings before she left, showing her how he did it. He would then give her the old ones to make use of elsewhere, as she always requested.
She would leave only after their embrace, and would sing him her final song of the night, just before the sun showed itself. And with the beginning of another day, he smiles.
He would continue writing every day as he waited for her, and would keep playing his lute every night, using his new strings.
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Short Stories (reconstructed)
Short StoryThis is a reconstructed anthology of the randomly generated stories I had in mind during 2015. (Read segment title for the list of unsettling content in each category)
