Music is an expression of individuality; it’s how you see the world. All art is, for that matter. You take how you experience the world, interpret it, and send it out there – express it – whether it’s sculpture, dance or singing.
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.
Linda sighed and looked at the broken garden doors. She knew leaving Jonathon in charge while she visited her mother was a mistake. Stepping gingerly over broken shards, she glanced around and accessed the situation. All she saw were dollar signs though. “Jonathon Michael Murphy!”
“Jonathon? Sweetie?” Linda walked through the house and shook her head. It looked like a tornado had struck, leaving nothing untouched. Where was Jonathon? “Jon? Hun?”
She started walking up the stairs but stopped as she heard a muffled cry coming from under the stairs. Linda stepped back down and tilted her head to look down the small hallway. “Jon?”
Jonathon burst out of the closet under the stairs and grabbed hold of his mother with tears flowing down his cheeks. “Shh.” He covered her mouth his with hand. “They might come back.”
Linda’s eyes widened and the color drained from her face. “Who?” she asked pulling his hand away and hugging him.
“The human children.” Jonathon’s finger shook as he pointed out the tiny cottage’s broken windows toward the looming mansion on the hill.
This short was inspired by Fandango’s FFFC prompt.