Good morning one and all. And welcome to the start of another week. This one is going to be a good one, I can feel it. There is something in the air. Or maybe a lack of something in the air. The grass pollen has finally dropped a little so perhaps my start of week optimism is buoyed by a lack of sneezing. Regardless, I will take it. So shall we begin this week with a writing prompt? Of course we should. ready? Good, then let’s go.
That wasn’t what I expected when I sat down with the prompt. I don’t know quite what I expected, but that wasn’t really it. Interesting.
Monday, August 9th: He opened his mouth and began to sing.
He opened his mouth and began to sing. The sound took me back and I felt myself nearly falling against the back of my seat. It was hard to look away, but once I did, I saw the same shock and surprise on the face of the others as I felt. I looked back to the boy.
His face and hands were the only skin showing and they were deeply pocked with burn marks. It looked in fact as though someone tried to melt him as though he were a candle. While we all knew better than to judge a person by their appearance, it was a natural thing to do. Even if it wasn’t always accurate or appropriate. Here I think we might be allowed a little lenience as the fire that so scarred his outsides looked as though it out to have damaged something within.
I stared at the boy as he sang and it was almost as if he began to glow, to transform into the glory of the music pouring out of his throat. For a moment, it was hard to even see his burn marked skin beneath the shining raiment of song.
It was dazzling.
I felt tears spring to my eyes and let them fall as I listened.
Finally the song ended and the boy closed his mouth. Silence descended upon the church. None dared move lest the whisper of cloth break the spell. The boy silently stepped back into his place with the rest of the choir and the choir master shook himself a little waved his baton and the choir finished out the song.
Their efforts, while amazing at the beginning of service, paled after the boy’s solo and there was shifting in the seats as though everyone was ready for the choral to end. After the boy’s solo, they were merely an afterthought. Something to get through merely to finish out the song.
Thankfully it was short.
As he took his place at the pulpit, the reverend seemed to have realized that he could not compete either. Luckily the bulk of his sermon was complete and he too merely needed to add the finishing touches. He enjoined us to remember the lessons and to carry them forth into the world and then he released us. There was a sigh of relief as the service ended.
Never had so many of the congregation wished to discuss the same topic all at once. I looked around for the boy as the choir broke apart and the individual members dispersed to their families. The boy was gone. I saw him neither standing alone nor paired with any of the other individual adults or family groups. He was simply gone.
I found myself drawn to my toes to get a slightly better vantage point and saw those around me doing likewise, each of us looking for the scarred boy with the magnificent voice.
He was nowhere to be seen.
I tried to recall if I had seen the boy, perhaps wondering through town. He would have been noticeable, or so I thought. Admittedly, I didn’t notice many of the children. Or I did, I just didn’t pay them any individual attention. They were children running around the playgrounds, school yards and other green spaces in town. My attention was limited to height weight and possibly hair color if they weren’t wearing a hat. I mostly made certain they weren’t in the way of my car when driving past the school. I would think his scarring would make him more distinctive than the others, but couldn’t honestly tell if I would have noticed him.
‘Perhaps one of the parents,’ I thought. I mentally listed my friends in town who had kids. ‘Surely you pay more attention to kids if you have them yourself.’ I was certain they would be the ones to ask about the mysterious boy.
Ten til Midnight 