Face The Music

By Noah Litle

I may not remember how I got here, but I’ve sworn revenge on the mage who trapped me under this globe. The glass shines darkly, reflecting back my image—a cute porcelain ballerina, pirouetting in a yellow tutu on a turning platform, encased in darkness and the oppressive Music that speaks without words.

Your dance is beautiful.

Keep your form.

Stick to the choreography.

Remember, you have no flaws.

It sings its tinkling song from eternity, holding me captive with its hypnotizing notes. What the Music can’t know is, I can see through the glass. The yellow dress in my reflection acts as a window to the outside, where I see maples and marigolds and monarch butterflies all around me as I spin.

Freedom.

My porcelain arms and legs pivot on their hinges, moving on to the next infinitely rehearsed step. The mechanical heart in my chest ticks away, aching for something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Life?

The realization drains me: I’m dead. I collapse to my knees, my joints grinding in pain with the insubordinate action.

The Music continues in indifference, almost angrily, pushing me to continue the dance.

So what if you’re dead? You’re still beautiful.

Get back up and dance.

You’ll shatter yourself if you’re not perfect.

But I’m done. I’m done dancing. I’m done with the Music.

I pound my fist on the turntable. A few extra notes ring with the impact, clashing with the Music, and it falters. The dissonance fades, and my captor sings again in full force.

I’ve never heard the Music waver. Maybe there is hope.

I look at my reflection. A few hairline fractures show on my legs and arms. But the yellow tutu in the reflection gives way to trees and grass and sunlight. An oriole comes into view as my platform spins me.

The bird twitters a song I can’t hear as she disappears from my field of vision.

What must it be like to be free? With no one telling you to dance a certain way… or to such a cruel song.

I close my eyes. The words of a different song tickle my memory. I might be able to remember… Then it comes to me. And I can’t not sing. “This is my Father’s world…”

The floor shudders. The Music hiccups, then comes back strong.

Get back to perfection!

You’re going to break if you don’t stop.

I sing on, just to spite the Music. “…The birds their carols raise.”

A loud snap interrupts my song, shooting pain through my whole body. I fall again.

The Music continues on, a little weaker, it seems. I check myself. The tiny cracks on my limbs have grown, and my heart now ticks in a lopsided rhythm.

The Music is right. I can’t keep singing like this.

I look back out to freedom. A huge crack in the glass arches up from the base. My singing did this?

I stand. Maybe I can keep singing. How does the next line go? “The morning light, the lily white…”

The top and sides splinter with a crunch that squeezes and stabs at my inner workings. The Music slows, winding down.

I grimace, singing through the pain. “…Declare their Maker’s praise.”

A fire ignites deep in my limping, mechanical heart, warming me from the inside out as I start the chorus. “This is my Father’s world…”

The dome above me cracks into a thousand pieces, and my porcelain façade shatters with it. Glass explodes from me in every direction. The turntable under my feet snaps in half, throwing me off balance.

I land on cool dirt and grass and shards of glass, breathless. Sunlight filters through the leaves above me, warming my flesh. I blink in the brightness. A gentle breeze caresses my skin and rustles the leaves. I hear a bird trill behind me. My heart thumps in my chest. I’m alive.

The loam under my hands gives ever so slightly as I push to my feet.

I turn, facing what’s left of my prison. The shattered base sits silent, dead.

The oriole continues to warble and sing. And the beauty of her song brings tears to my eyes.

This is my revenge. To walk free. To sing and dance as the bird does—without fear or restraint. To forget the mage that trapped me and live my life.

I close my eyes, breathing in the freedom and laughing with the exhale.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Noah Litle, as a writer, is best described as a reluctant wordsmith. His real passion is for stories and story analysis. He likes rainy days, hanging out with his friends and family, and analyzing his favorite movies. His dream is to glorify his Creator through glorious art, and practices doing so through arranging music, creating with Legos, designing the occasional origami model, and of course, writing stories.

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