2018 Writing Scrapbook

Mute

Note: This is a Christmas present for my dear friend Annaleigh.

The elves lived in the depth of the woods. They lived with a glistening bough of holly berries always hanging over their heads and every droplet of water that they touched turning lavender and floating into the air. They were a mystical species, one whose actions couldn't easily be deciphered.

Their lives were consumed with merrymaking- they pranced through the meadows and plucked the berries from the very trees above their heads, scampering to and fro. But they had one grave fault to their kind: they couldn't speak.

Yes, their mouths were mute. They were like Zechariah, unable to speak because he couldn't accept the great word of God. So as they had stared at each other with large, round eyes and glistening golden hair, their statures had become withered and doleful.

None of their minds were connected. Not in any way. So as a people, they had stood in silence, listening to the breeze blow. It had been like an abandoned city. That was, until a tyke, not familiar with the ways of the world yet, had blown on a horn. His ears had shot up with delight as he had made a mellow sound, long and clear.

So he had progressed up. He had played a fanfare to his emotions of jubilation, and when it ended, the people around him had applauded. And they had thought.

In the present day, they are mute. They are silent. But that child is hailed as a god, for he unlocked the key: Music. Music for him. Music for all! Yes, they are mute, but they are no longer alone!

The elves spend their days picking flowers and frivolously dancing in circles, no laughter coming from their mouths. But they each contain a token that gives them their voice- a horn just like his. A new language escalated from his heroic day. The horns played in a duet, bouncing through the trees. Then a trio. A quartet. Quintet. A whole ensemble, a whole cacophonous symphony of horns blaring through the empty wind!

Suppose one is to greet the others. A low pitch it plays! Suppose that one is bidding adieu to its loved ones. A high, tinkling pitch that falls into a melodic minor. And they live. And the love. And their music lets them overcome even the greatest of struggles.