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The Story:
Every morning, my father makes me watch over our sheep in the pasture. They have to be protected from predators and from themselves. But I don’t want to be their shepherd.
I grab the flute that I whittled last year and head out to the tree I like to sit under. Playing my flute is the only way I have to pass the time out there.
Something feels wrong about the day. And the pasture seems too quiet. I start walking slower, afraid of what I might find.
As I emerge from the path through the tree line, I am confronted by three lions. Their faces are coated in blood.
They begin creeping toward me, stepping over the carcasses of my sheep. There’s nowhere that I can run or hide. All I have is my flute, and it would serve me poorly as a weapon. If I’m going to die, I might as well be doing something I love.
I bring the flute to my lips, close my eyes, and play a medley that represents my heart in this moment. I breathe out a solemn tune through the wood, and it’s the most beautiful song I have ever composed.
When I finish my song, I open my teary eyes and see the lions lying down, their angry eyes glazed over. It almost looks as though they are somehow feeling what I’m feeling.
They seem calm, so I relax a little. My thoughts are now on my lost sheep. I look down at my flute. Could it be? The fear of my near death a moment ago must have made me go insane. But I lift the flute again, looking at the carcasses of my sheep, and begin to blow my very heart into the notes.
The massacred sheep start growing as I play. Meat forms on their bones. Skin and wool stretch over, and the sheep get up and trot over to the remainder of the herd, like nothing ever happened to them.
I immediately know where I must go, before it’s too late and I lose this unique ability. My father will have no choice but to accept my music after this.
I take off, sprinting for my mother’s grave.