From the other side of the wall, she hears voices. They wander in and out of volume. But even when she can hear, she doesn’t understand.
Unfamiliar tones and patterns bounce gracefully around in a floating melody. The whispered hisses of a babbling brook. Smoothly halting around quiet boulders.
Then another voice, sharp and terse. The same soothing sounds made harsh and grating. Dangerous. Stern. The deep rumble of an angry Earth.
But it’s still the same words, the same melodious, dancing sounds, struck down by a militant bearing.
She doesn’t understand. She can’t understand.
Laughter is familiar. The bubbling brilliance of joy.
She listens, lost, for a long time. The… family?… behind the wall is having an argument, debate. Stern, deep voices are countered by light, flowing ones. Others, which almost sing in their cadence, speak up in a void. All drift and wander and move around one another like a river. A foreign song with unknowable words.
She smiles. Because once the words are known, she knows, the music will be dulled.
Æverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.