Borrowed Voices The spotlight found me before I found my own voice. Warm, blinding, like it expected something of me. The others around me looked steadier, freer, like they had never questioned whether they belonged. I did. But I told myself to be brave. And so, it began. Words fell from their mouths like they had always lived there, fitting far too perfectly to ever be questioned. I waited for my cue like it meant something. But when it came, there was nothing. My name hung in the air for a second too long, a space where words should have lived. I had prayed for nothing to go wrong, and yet they filled in what I could never give. I looked down at my script, my lines erasing. Panic drenched me as I scrambled through the pages, but the ink had already decided I was unnecessary. The audience didn't notice, or maybe they did and hid it well behind their faces. So I tried again. I shaped my mouth around borrowed sounds, forced syllables into existence, stitched together something that...
A warrior, strong and hungry, strode Through a village, silent, on the road. He saw the villagers, pale with fear, And asked what danger hovered near. 'There's a monster in the field,' they cried, 'With heads that grow, it will not hide. It multiplies and spreads with might We dare not face its dreadful sight,' The warrior laughed and drew his blade, Determined to meet the beast, unafraid. He strode into the field, far and wide, where the villagers dared not to step inside. He raised his sword and struck a head, Then paused and tasted, much to his dread, It was just a melon, juicy and sweet, A harmless fruit near his feet. The villagers gasped, 'He's just like the beast! He'll kill us all, our lives deceased!" They hurled their stones, and pitchforks high, And the warrior fell, alone to die. Then came a traveler, all so wise, With careful gaze and gentle eyes. He saw the mound, the heads of green, And recognized what they had seen. He taught the ...
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