In Jane’s Microfiction Challenge 14 – Spring, she asked us to consider Spring, sorrow, silence, solitary, submerge in relation to the Harald Slott-Moller painting.
“Brita in the spring” is my response. I’m always open to criticism, comments, and suggestions.
It would take more than all the birds of spring to make her heart sing. Or a crown of sun-beaming flowers to make her dance. Or a “new” frock cut from two of her older sisters’ dresses to make her smile.
She could run, play hide and seek, jump rope, roll a hoop. But none of that counted in the village. What counted was singing, what counted was a voice. Brita’s full voice had yet to find her, so she spoke little. When she had to, it was in a halting whisper of ssendrowsdrawkcab and hal ord.
When she gazed at her wavy reflection in the water, a not unpleasant visage returned her look. Perhaps her cheeks and chin too ruddy, her hair too dullish a bronze, but still, not monstrous. Just speech-less. Not whole.
Hope kept her going through the months of ridicule and silence. A solitary figure trolling the dykelands. As the birds gathered this year, on the eve of vernal equinox, none had the gift of a voice for her. Another year without singing, chattering, laughing. In a village know for it’s performers: orators; singers; story tellers, to have no voice was to not exist.
The girl in the stream motioned for Brita to join her in that watery space where voice meant less than in the air above.
© taleweavering phylor 2016