Day 1 of Kingdom Journalist’s Writing Prompts
Prompt: Work
They called it her work, Relima thought as she carefully turned a tuning peg on her violin. People were sitting around her, in a half circle, young and old, looking at her expectantly. She couldn’t think of it as such, not even when her arms had ached and her fingers were blistered and she couldn’t sleep because the music in her head wouldn’t stop. Work was toiling in a field under the blistering sun, it was having to spend hours herding goats while you had hardly anything to drink, pruning yet another olive bush when you couldn’t stand to see another one of the things. Work exhausted you but gave little fulfilment, and it made you wish tomorrow wouldn’t come so you could simply rest. Music was delight, her favourite thing in the world, and it made her wish the blisters would heal overnight so she could easily play again in the morning.
She set the violin on her shoulder and picked up her bow. She could hear the small crowd draw in a breath as one as quiet fell amongst them. A small child gurgled and was hastily shushed when she set the bow on the strings. All of them disappeared as her music filled the room. Ears and fingers and arm played together to coax out the sounds from her instrument. She could hear the story in the music, the story that it was written to tell. She reached for her magic and found the spell to let the very light of the sun play with her music. A little boy, made of pure light, shimmered into being on the ground in front of her. He uncurled himself and stood up, looking far into a distance that she could not see. But what he saw there excited him as her music became fast and light. Her bow danced on the strings as the boy leapt up and down, waving to a figure which was spun out of light at the far end of the room and came running up to them.
For all of that song they played together, light and music, telling a tale that was as old as the hills. At last the figures faded away and Relima gave the last few notes the delicate ending they deserved. The present world returned to her as her audience lauded her performance. She took her bow, smiling at them, and left their sight. Work indeed. She lived in stories, as the bird who sings in the branches while the characters run right by. It was her joy to give that gift to those who would listen, they thanked her for it with a livelihood and she would never need to work for another day in her life.
