Another installment of my little 'morning for' short entries. I'd love feedback, but don't take me too seriously, I'm new to the whole writer thing
A morning for Sona
She dreams in harmony. Vibrant ululations of crests and troughs that resonate in her ear, the rumbling vibrations with color for pitch.
Mosaics of minutes and preludes, collages of boleros and nocturnes.
She awakes, a thin layer of sweat on her neck as she realizes her next masterpiece. Removing herself from her bed, she glides along the plush rug to the side of her voice, quivering with anticipation as she plucks the thinnest string, once, twice, thrice. The waves of music attract the staff of the house to her door, the maid silently replacing her sheets with fresh ones as she departs, voice at her fingertips, playing a simple lullaby. A few maids and butlers present her with an array of fruits and other foods, all of which she graciously accepts. Despite her lack of words, the people around her always knew what she wanted.
Sitting down at her mirror, a maiden fussing over her hair while she idly savors the different tunes she broods over, she blinks and waits a moment. Sure enough, a butler is soon there with a paper and quill for her to write down a quick note. Her hair pouring down her sides as she likes it, she laughs with her highest strings. The people around her smile, filled with the tune. Everyone is happy when she’s happy.
Her carriage awaits, and the very steps of the manor act as if they want to carry her down, rather than force her to exert effort to walk upon them, though her feet barely touched the ground anyway. In her plush velvet coach, she breathes in the morning air as her fingers find their way to the strings. The horses in front bleat with appreciation as she composes an impromptu breathing of strength and reliability, they know she is giving them a private concert.
Bystanders crowd along the roadside to hear the sweet melodies floating from the open windows of the moving carriage, always different, always a fleeting appraisal of what their master is thinking. A sweet lied for the couples, a valiant ballad for the soldiers (and even a few metallic screeches for pentakill fans).
She looks to the horizon, a great mountain standing watch over her villa, so she plays an opera of thanks just for him.
Her song was different every day and anyone who listened to it would tell you why. She wasn’t playing music, only conversing with the world around her.