The Music of KlausenbauernhofA Story by ethelkingsleya fictional story of a beautiful piece of architecture, as wonderfully flawed as any human I've ever metMusic seeps into the walls of this old house. Years of melodies creep through the holes in the walls, the cracks in the ceilings. Each note working it’s way into the aged dark wood, put together with as much soul as any musician ever wrote a song. For years, the house is occupied by a family who lights the big hearth every morning and sits in the living room every evening telling stories and filling the rooms with songs, laughter, chatter. But then the kids grow older and the house quieter. Layers of dust coat the walls and the music crawls deeper and deeper into the old wood, becoming a whisper of what it used to be, until one day, the house is silent, the music dormant, the hearth stone-cold. It seems that nobody can hear the music anymore; nobody remembers the souls that used to dance here. The birds sing, the trees rustle, the river whispers across the road! The sun shines through the living room windows, making each piece of wood glow golden. Warmth rises up from the floor; there’s a fire in the hearth; a young couple dances. Their feet move nimbly; she has a high sweet voice like a lullaby, and he cups his hand to the wall, listening. “Do you hear that?” He asks. Three children are born into a world of warmth, music, home-cooked meals and constant chatter. Guests come in and out bringing life to the old house, harmonizing with the melodies of black forest pines, firs, and spruce. The music soars through every crack and crevice of the property, skips onto the lawn, leaps onto tree branches, dances down the balcony, does a twirl in the kitchen, clicks its heels in the guest house, and sings me to sleep while the distant sound of a bluegrass quintet plucks on into the night. © 2017 ethelkingsley |
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Added on March 27, 2017Last Updated on March 27, 2017 AuthorethelkingsleyCOAboutI'm a young writer, still experimenting with most everything. Wordsworth said to fill your paper with the breathings of your heart, but I think my heart is still figuring out how to breathe. Hence the.. more..Writing
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