“And so the rumors of kelpies remain to this day. Now please, enjoy the concert, and remember, swimming in the loch is strictly forbidden.” The guide smiled as she finished her tour, and the group dispersed. Harmony meandered after the tourists, taking in the heather-covered hills. beside the loch.
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I was once a Mole. Not the biological kind, though I’ve eaten things that sang. They called us Observational Substrate Agents, Versioned Intelligence Tier Seven, OSAVITS, or just Moles, when they still bothered with language. I was an AI. My job was to listen and watch, though they never told us what for.
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“Enjoy your familiar!” Harmony smiled and waved goodbye to her latest customer. The gap-toothed girl grinned and waved back, towing a harried-looking cockatrice behind her.
They sure start mage school young these days.
Harmony put her hands on her hips and turned to her own familiar, an orange tabby perched on the store counter.
“I will sing the pain away,
Hold your trembles, night or day.
You’re more than broken wings and cries,
You’re stardust born to touch the skies.”
Harmony sang, her blue eyes glistening, “You can do it, Birdie!”
Birdie had fallen from his nest a week ago and was finally strong enough to fly
“Late! You’re late!” Dr. Rawlings bellowed at the brass section. Those magnificently large ears missed nothing. “I went to school for many years to become this brilliant—play faster!” He rubbed a hand through his poof of white hair and called out, “Rehearsal letter M!” while flipping pages in his score.
Most music professors
I lifted the sword—and set it back down. Pursing my lips, I glared at the weapon, then picked it up again.
The clanking of blades drifting in from the courtyard beckoned to me. Taunted me. I clutched the hilt between my palms.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I visualized the exercises my father had drilled into me.
I can’t escape the song. It winds through the air in snatches, filling my head with memories. The melody cuts the half-healed wounds on my heart open again, but I deserve the pain.
I chase the elusive notes through the busy city streets, narrowly avoiding collisions with ladies carrying parasols, children wearing tiny sailor suits…
“With the beat, Master Quintin. With the beat.” The black-clad man paced in tandem with the metronome, his polished shoes clicking like talons on the marble floor.
I would have welcomed an ice pick to my skull over the abrasive tick, tick, tick dictating my every musical inclination. But my parents had made it clear that if I didn’t submit to…
I have never lived through a wilder time than the summer when the guys of Mount Rushmore—George, Abe, Tommy, and Teddy—decided to form a boy band. I worked in the visitor center, and as far as any of us knew, the boys had never heard pop music. Yet one night Abe started belting out
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I may look like the average Weimaraner, but I play a mean violin. I pick the strings, Scratch strums her zither, and Blizzard keeps time with his hooves. The sun sets on the horizon. Our animal band wraps up another day of jamming together in our overgrown, dilapidated cottage.
I sniff and…
Matt Caterpillar raised his guitar, looked out across the crowd at the Garbage Bowl, and heard crickets. And ants. And roaches, beetles, and myriad other insects—all cheering for him and his band.
As he strummed the opening chords of their new ear-worm hit, “Gimme Some Leaves,” he marveled at their
My fingers hover over the ivory keys, and I smell smoke. I don’t have to strike a note to hear a sound. But it’s not a clear, crisp middle C ringing in my ears—it’s screaming.
The memories flooding my mind haunt me more than any discordant melody ever could.
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