So I was given a prompt to add detail to a part of a story from a workshop I did. I ended up adding way too much and going off on a tangent. Here is my new story that was inspired by a scene in a spoken story.
The pauper sat at the old, run down castle wall, The same one that had been coated in green ivy his whole life; the same one that concealed the world from the castles’ beauty on the other side. He would always remember peeking over the wall, where the loosened rocks enabled him to climb its heights. Nothing but his wooden flute and a notebook in his hand, to gaze at the wander that was the castles surrounding gardens. This is where he came to write. About his thoughts, his fears, his dreams, his hopes, his visuals, his troubles, everything. Not with words, but with music.
Today was the day of his 20th birthday. He still had the flute he used as a small, scruffy boy. He made it himself, you know, at just 15 years old. He came back to the wall on this day, as he had not done in so long, flute and notebook in hand. He stepped his now strong feet in the walls large gaps and hauled himself up the tangled ivy vines. When he reached the top, he wiped away a sheen of sweat from his brow, tucking his long hair behind his ears.
The beauty of the castle gardens had yet to change. In fact, he swear they had gotten even better. The vibrant colours hit his eyes like a blind man seeing for the first time. The garden, a most spectacular array of colours. A multitude of greens, surrounding, but not smothering the clusters of flowers scattered through the landscape. Bright yellow poppies, crisp blue daisies, and deep red gerberas. And in the middle of it all, a pond. But only the most beautiful pond he’s ever seen in his life. The water; the clearest water you’ve ever seen. Fish swimming in the shallows, possibly koi fish, although he was too far from the pond, on top of that wall, to be sure.
He pulled out his flute and made it sing the song of of the earth. He sung the notes that the world gave him, the vibrations, the energy, what he saw he wrote. He let the music take him away, he flew when he wrote music. Like he was in another land all together.
It wasn’t long until he saw the princess, the most beautiful princess he’s ever seen, sitting by the pond. She hadn’t seemed to notice him, but he made it his duty to be noticed. After what seemed like hours of playing his music, the pauper went home to his small village, thinking about what he can possibly do to get her attention tomorrow.
He decided that as he had nothing to offer the princess but his beautiful music, that he would continue coming to the wall each day and playing until the day she notices him.
Hours, turned to days, turned into weeks of him sitting on the old wall playing. It was the first time in his life he had felt like he has a purpose. His parents, ever wandering where he was off to all day, were amazed that he was able to do all his chores over night. Boy, must he be tired.
It was one year later, one full 365 days, when on his 21st birthday, the pauper climbed the height of the rickety old wall one last time. He put his feet in between the loose stones that he had grown to know so well, he held the ivy in his hands to help hoist himself up, and when he finally reached the top, he was disheartened to see the princess was not in the garden today. With a heavy heart he perched on the wall, he said out loud ‘what ever will I do now’. He was startled when a voice replied ‘What’s wrong boy?’
It was the most beautiful voice he had heard in his lifetime, he looked down towards the voice to see the princess standing there.
‘Oh princess it is you. You have finally noticed me. I have been playing for a whole year to you my beautiful music in hopes that you would notice me and we could finally meet.’
She replied ‘I have been hearing you, dear boy, your music that sings to me every day has filled me with so much joy, I am happy to finally meet you’
And so, the pauper met the princess and the princess met the pauper, and what happened next is for another story.