Flash Fiction: The Forgotten Melody
Peter the old musician, lived in a beautiful small village of Edimkpa hidden deeply tucked behind the mountains. His captivating tunes, carried on a family heirloom of violin cobwebbed in generations past. Over the years, however, this time Peter made weaker sounds, and his hands began to be feeble. After a while, he gave up playing.
The villagers had missed the sweet, haunting melodies that once rang over the village but they knew Peter must be getting on in years. Quietly they gave in and wanted to accept that the music was lost forever.
It was a chilly autumn morning and the trees were wearing their brown coats, Maureen sprinted to explore around woods surrounding her village. The farther she roamed into the woods just like, say, a sweet creature that had found itself in a deep water gulf down came her pretty little foot! IN AIR!! UNTIL SHE stumbled upon an ancient IVY-covered COTTAGE!!
This was an awful small cottage, and it was filled with musical instruments of every description; but the dustiest thing in that room (since no one had ever looked inside) — or hardly played from sight — pervaded there as before…The violin. When Maureen found it, she got a strange feeling about this one. The violin was waiting for her, it felt like.
During the following days, Maureen came to the cottage and taught herself how to play the violin. As though the music was coursing through her veins and soon, haunting melodies filled the cottage once more. It became known throughout the village, and in no time all sorts of people began to pour out of their houses to try and hear this mysterious music.
And then one evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains and colored her clouds in orange and pink hues, they necklaced outside Maureen's on top of every word not given to them like a beaded light. A man with a crooked back and silver hair (old) pushed his way through the crowd as she played.
Peter — the still sometimes-famous musician of our village. He had not left his home in years, but the music called to him from the cottage. He cried as he watched Maureen.
Through the windows, Maureen could hear the villagers cheering when she was done. His hands were shaking as Peter came up to her. You are our treasure," he said in a choked voice “Music that I thought was lost forever such a great gift.
She too smiled, and with an unspoken respect for the finest musicians she handed Peter the violin. "It's yours," she said. You need to experience this.
His hands went from weak to strong as Peter accepted the violin. So he started to play and the eerie melodies that had fascinated the village for centuries echoed across their lands. It was a duet, and the music sailed through mountain pass narrating their village story to every corner of the universe passing from one set of shaking hands into another.
So from then on Maureen and Peter played together, their music warming the hearts of all who listened as they learned to play forever. And life continued humming along in an Edimkpa way, its melody transitioning from generation to the next – a reminder that sometimes, the nicest things just forget… not really ever lost.
As the years rolled by, Maureen and Peter became known across the village for their music. The old ivy-clad cottage had become a living music center, and its walls were filled with mirth, applause, and the soft sounds of violinists.
However, time eventually caught up with Peter. His fingers weakened and his hands shook too much to play. And as Peter had tended the violin, so his daughter — now a young woman — attended to him most lovingly.
One evening, while the village was getting ready to celebrate a big music festival for Peter and Maureen in tribute to their love, the storm struck from the mountains. The rain came down in sheets, punctuated by thunder that echoed through the valley. The cottage was no exception, met by a bolt of lightning that hit the old structure ablaze mercilessly in flames that were capable of destroying even the building.
The villagers panicked at the sight of flames overtaking their cottage and inside were those precious instruments. Fortunately, Maureen managed to think on her feet and darted straight into the inferno — intent upon rescuing the fiddle that held so much joy for one woman; a pastime providing purpose for another.
The fire and smoke now, she found the violin. She clutched it to her chest, tears in Her eyes as the flames happily licked at our feet. [As] she emerged from the flames, safe and sound- much to the joyous applause of all her villagers.
But the cottage went up in flames, and Peter grieved for losing his refuge. That was it, their music had ended again.
Peter watched Maureen play with the villagers and it hit him that music was not in those walls of their cottage, but rather resided within his heart as he looked at her. He trembled as he received the violin from her and with more resolve, started playing again.
The villagers heard and followed on with whatever instruments they had, the spirit of Peter giving no quarter. The festival turned into a spontaneous party, from the burnt-out remains of our shack came forth music louder and sweeter than we ever played.
The golden sunlight streamed suddenly through gaps in the storm clouds again and stumbled, blinking among raindrops to flash kindling against windows of the village: a light joke on their path done since coming down from ruins that pointed clearly enough what had come about. It was just in the hearts of them.
From then on, the village worked together to make a new music hall—an impressive building that would last for centuries. Peter and Maureen kept playing, they passed their skill of music to the village youth.
And so the songs of their village lived on, a testament to music and the unbreakable wills that sing its joyful hymns. In the tiny village of Edinkpa, that was Peter and Maureen's legacy — an eloquent acknowledgment that music had endured; it could rise again more lucidly beautiful than ever before.
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