A Stifled Song

The sand-dusted bazaar gleamed with the light of a thousand stars. Tall women adorned themselves with jewels and metals they traded and traded again for greater clout, bodies draped in loose-fitting silks boldly dyed. Music was forbidden, for it added such that chaos would reign over man, rather than the opposite.

Atia, a young woman, remembered hearing the sound of music as a small child and longed to hear it again. Atia found that going to the bazaar during a rush was the closest she would get to music. The hundreds of people buzzing about, the small talk of acquaintances, and the exchanging of goods all created a smooth and consistent rhythm. As Atia approached her favorite antique shop, she spotted something that must have been new, something she hadn’t seen before. An old gramophone sat on the clearance table, covered in dust and loose parts.

With eyes like saucers, Atia asked the shop owner, “How much does it cost?”

A nervous laugh from a man with opal earrings. “That one, dear, isn’t for sale.”

“Oh.” Atia’s beleaguered steps back to the street must have demanded pity.

He called her back, covering the music-player in a duffel with a spare record, then shooing her away with as much worry as his well-wishes.

“That girl is more than meets the eye,” he mumbled from his tent.

Later that night, Atia dreamt of a tornado, whirling up the sand like some devil, and swirling destruction upon the bazaar and her nearby clay home. The storm flew through the streets and sand-fields, leaving hopelessness in its wake.

Waking, her hands trembled as she gently placed the record, watching the smooth black disk begin its slow dance. However, what the relic unlocked in her, she was not ready for.