May 24, 2016 Original Flash Fiction, Original Short Story, The Daily Post

Dream-Song
©May 23rd, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Out of the dust rose Dream.

And Dream held in her palm a flower of darkness, gathering her raiment of chaos around her body.  She stood tall and black, full of stars in her pockets, and full of inchoate longing, for she was all alone, and loneliness wasn’t yet born.

She looked around her, saw no one, and yearned blindly for that which had no name.

A song arose in her, full of hunger for someone to hear her.

And Dream sang a song that wound around all the worlds there were and the worlds to come, her song a whispering thread of shining silver that edged the darkness, to light the way for Someone.

Her song held stories that stirred in many minds, stories of things to be, stories of love and death, and suffering and peace.

One day, her song came whispering into the mind of a man who had no eyes to see with.  He spent his days begging on the streets, singing a tuneless song about loss and loneliness.  Out of pity, people fed him, and clothed him, but they would have no more to do with him, for they feared his misery and his loneliness, for these clung to him like a shadow.

Into this mind, Dream blew her song, and into his lap, she dropped the flower of darkness, and the man who was lonely now knew he had found someone. 

And Dream wound lovingly into his world and brought him the gift of seeing into, and beyond, what was there, so that when the blind man lay down at night on the wretched sidewalk where he spent his days begging, he saw stars and a sky that went all the way into him.

And his song changed. 

He sang of the beauty of life, of the beauty of love, of his companion whom no one could see.  He sang of stars and sky, of the universe and of friendship.  He sang like one possessed, and now the people reviled him, saying, “Surely he must be mad, for he sings of things that he cannot see, nor know nothing of.”  And they beat him about the head and shoulders, even as he sang.

He cried out at first, but they didn’t hear, so loud was the clamour around him.  He sang louder and louder.  They berated him loudly and beat him some more.  He sang louder still, with broken and bleeding voice, about mercy. 

Now, tired of beating him, the people went away, saying, “He is possessed of the devil.  See how he sings about that which he cannot know!”  They cautioned children to stay away from him, when some, touched by his song, and moved by his plight, tried to go close and listen.

Nobody fed him any more, for they were afraid of the blind man with his unending song.  And now, they felt a darkness closing in on all of them.

Bloody and crazed, the blind man sang in sun and darkness, in rain and wind for seven days and seven nights.  Now, his song changed, and he sang of blood and war, and spite and hatred. 

Dream watched from afar.  And she suffered, because she knew what he was becoming, and why.  She had no way to stop him, and her heart was sore.  For, she had sung to him, and caused him to sing.

On the seventh night, the man died.

The people of the city caused his body to be thrown far from the city gates for the vultures to feast on.  They were afraid, and did not know why.

And Dream watched, with quickening breath.

Suddenly, there was movement beside her.  She turned, and caught her breath.  For there, in front of her, arrayed in gold and red, bigger than the worlds she saw, stood the blind man whom she had driven mad.  With smoky eyes, he smiled at her, and held out his hand.  She stepped back. 

“You came to me,” he said, and his voice was soft.  “You sang to me.  I am yours.”

“What do you call yourself?” asked Dream.

“Ah, but surely you know the answer to that!” smiled the Man.

And she did.

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Written in response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  Dream

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tags: #AllegoricalFiction, #DailyPrompt, #Dream, #OriginalShortStory, #TheDailyPost