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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Rhapsody
A mare stands in an empty room. At night-time. There’s a full moon, and it’s snowing. She’s playing a string instrument. Any string instrument. A violin. A viola. A cello. It doesn’t matter. There’s nobody to hear it.
The crackling of a new log in the old fireplace.
A mare continues to play her viola. A whole sonata. Wordless. Eyes closed. Ears open. Listening.
An old stallion in his chair, creaking as he gazes fondly at two foals asleep on a couch. A pegasus winging through the night, starlight playing off his frantic motions. A colt walking through the silent streets, leaving hoofprints in the snow. In the distance, there is music.
He pauses.
In a room – any room – a mare stands, playing. Her violin sings. Firelight traces her form as she steps, this way and that, dancing between the shadows. The smell of smoke. The grit of dust and dirt beneath hooves. The chill of winter through an open window. A mare. Any mare.
A mother in a white apron, with soot on one corner and something smeared across the other. A filly, restless, watching a colt walk by from between shuttered blinds. A mare, sleeping. Fitfully. Dreaming of fire and brimstone, and whole mountains and oceans that peel away, until there’s nothing but her and a wall covered in the scrawl of a half-empty marker pen.
A mare stands in an empty room. The paint is peeling. A fugue, half finished, scrawled in pen. In her hooves, a cello sings. A whole cantata. A whole choir. Breathless. Voiceless. On one string. The mare listens.
An old postcard on the mantelpiece, its picture faded only in her memory. The smell of warm pastries on cold mornings, held tight in hoof. The old clock marking the midnight hour, ringing out promises of warm daylight and a new tomorrow
In an empty room, a mare pauses. Fingers of moonlight dapple her coat. She listens. Hoofsteps below. Wingbeats above. Creaking adjacent. Shutters closed, doors locked, fires crackling. And for a moment –
She opens her eyes.
In a crowded room, a mare resumes. The song has changed.
And it is heard.
A colt walks down an empty street at night-time, through the snow, in the moonlight, in the starlight, past the bakery, hoofprints in his wake, listening to the sound of a violin in an empty room.
He likes the music.
The crackling of a new log in the old fireplace.
A mare continues to play her viola. A whole sonata. Wordless. Eyes closed. Ears open. Listening.
An old stallion in his chair, creaking as he gazes fondly at two foals asleep on a couch. A pegasus winging through the night, starlight playing off his frantic motions. A colt walking through the silent streets, leaving hoofprints in the snow. In the distance, there is music.
He pauses.
In a room – any room – a mare stands, playing. Her violin sings. Firelight traces her form as she steps, this way and that, dancing between the shadows. The smell of smoke. The grit of dust and dirt beneath hooves. The chill of winter through an open window. A mare. Any mare.
A mother in a white apron, with soot on one corner and something smeared across the other. A filly, restless, watching a colt walk by from between shuttered blinds. A mare, sleeping. Fitfully. Dreaming of fire and brimstone, and whole mountains and oceans that peel away, until there’s nothing but her and a wall covered in the scrawl of a half-empty marker pen.
A mare stands in an empty room. The paint is peeling. A fugue, half finished, scrawled in pen. In her hooves, a cello sings. A whole cantata. A whole choir. Breathless. Voiceless. On one string. The mare listens.
An old postcard on the mantelpiece, its picture faded only in her memory. The smell of warm pastries on cold mornings, held tight in hoof. The old clock marking the midnight hour, ringing out promises of warm daylight and a new tomorrow
In an empty room, a mare pauses. Fingers of moonlight dapple her coat. She listens. Hoofsteps below. Wingbeats above. Creaking adjacent. Shutters closed, doors locked, fires crackling. And for a moment –
She opens her eyes.
In a crowded room, a mare resumes. The song has changed.
And it is heard.
A colt walks down an empty street at night-time, through the snow, in the moonlight, in the starlight, past the bakery, hoofprints in his wake, listening to the sound of a violin in an empty room.
He likes the music.