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Mute

By Ourliazo All Rights Reserved ©

Fantasy / Humor

Blurb

In a world where people could sharpen stories to knives and soften the worst battles like it melted on their own tongue, there is a desperate need for control. Lines need to be drawn and laws need to be enforced in this place where reality is a very weak thread, already frayed and near to breaking. So they call upon the fearless and the fierce. They ask for something much worse.

Prologue

It was a lovely place. Beautiful, stable weather and green, green nature that circled the large town, towering higher than his home’s trees ever could. The small, quaint houses were all brick and all made by ancestors, completely filled with family history and joyful colours.

People were friendly, smiling at perfect strangers as they walked around to the parks or the markets as a blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds drifted lazily over-head. Everything seemed so much clearer, more vibrant here. It was gorgeous, breathtakingly amazing.

(It wasn’t home and he loathed it.)

They’re all silent, he realised with in the first few seconds of arriving in this picturesque town.

(None of them were able to Speak like his kind could; they were unable to bring out words from their very souls and form their will into a reality.)

Standing frozen in the market center - in the loud chatter of bargaining, the screams of children running underfoot and as a pack of girls passed by, tittering and exclaiming loudly about something he didn’t care to understand - he felt so lost in the silence. He thought for a brief, panicked moment, that they had taken away his Voice and left him to rot with these people.

(In his terror he exhaled on a desperate Please and was immediately surrounded by strangers with concerned voices, desperate to help but with blank eyes.)

Even as confused as he was, he was still himself so; ‘they can’t Speak’ immediately transformed to ′they can’t Speak’. It was only a day later and he was comfortably accommodated with a nice, blank eyed family, heading out onto the street to begin his particular brand of magic.

(Besides, he tells himself as his body trembles with something close to hysteria, he’s had so many beginnings now that he has it down to an art form. This shouldn’t be any different or more difficult just because he finally found a home – and then lost it again.)

He asked a round faced boy where the most populated area was and he was guided with sticky, chocolate covered hands to the main square. The branches of the market spawned from there, crawling through the streets to infect the rest of the town with imported wonders and foreign lifestyles. The sound was almost deafening. He stepped up onto the central dais and inhaled deeply.

His first song was Converge and they came.

His second was Riches and they gave.

(His third was Help Me and they stared with blank eyes.)

As he settles in to this new place, he finds a firm foothold and stretches his reach. He has never been one for routine or predictability, but he plays at being domesticated for the sake of his facade. He gives performances they can’t remember but end up feeling in their bones for hours after. He smiles at children and the elderly, flirting with the single women and joking with the men.

(He whispers sweet nothings to the ones in power, and they kneel, still thinking that they’re humouring him.)

Some days he’ll sing and sing and sing until he’s hoarse. He’ll throw his Voice until all noise within his radius is silent, entranced by his power. His vile carers, back when he didn’t know their true faces, always said he had the most beautiful, enthralling Voice.

So he sings until his money box is buried under a small mountain of gold coins. Until his audience collapse on tired legs from standing so long. Until children start to cry silent, ignored tears, unknowing of the fact.

He sings of sorrow and heartbreak because that’s all he can manage now, because he’s so full of black that the small amount of white can’t even make a grey, no matter how dark. His infected Voice makes them suffer, these innocent people, and it makes them feel his own pain of being moved around like a toy; of being told he’s going to harm others to help monsters, all the while ripping away his everything – his family.

(He loves this place and these Voiceless fools, but some days he sings.)

Despite his dislike against this perfect place, he can’t help loving it on a shallow level. He passed citizens on the street and not an ounce of suspicion pulled at the edges of their expressions. All the people here didn’t know him, didn’t hate him.

It made him think of better times…

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