Aria

Author’s Note:

I first wrote “Aria” in 2018—later, in 2020, it won regionals for the Young Georgia Authors Writing Competition. But it’s been a long time since then, and my writing has changed.

As such, when I submitted “Aria” to Enigma for publication, I fully intended to rework the story and bring it up to my current skill level. But what caught me off guard was how hesitant I was to change any part of it, how every edit felt inauthentic—how “Aria” had somehow, unprompted, become something of a time capsule of my writing as it used to be. With this in mind, I present it to you now, exactly the same as it was six years ago, an homage to my past self.

The single yellow light that dangled from the ceiling overhead began to flicker, disrupting the peace I had finally found. But what else could I expect from an old light in an old storage room that had become musty from decades of disuse?

I concentrated on the pulsing light. Stop flickering, I willed it. Unsurprisingly, no magic emanated from within me. The light’s pattern did not change.

In this world in which it was rare not to have magic in some form, I had none. So while others flitted about and made friends, I hid in this dark, dusty room and practiced music, my only talent and a forgotten art. I was terrified that someone would find out and scorn me for it. Music was my escape, my freedom. I loved it and I hoped that nothing would take it from me.

I became fascinated by music many years ago, when my teacher assigned an essay on cultural aspects of the world in centuries past. During my research, I found a small store which owned a few of the last remaining instruments. I loved learning about the instruments and the science behind each. I bought as many as I could afford, despite the store owner’s warning that many people saw music as pointless frivolity. I disagreed wholeheartedly.

I closed my eyes, strummed the guitar with which I was practicing today, and slid into a magical daydream. My heart swelled with joy. I savored the sweet sound of the notes as I played.

The door creaked dissonantly, and I opened my eyes to blink at the flood of daylight. The guitar was snatched from my fingers before I quite knew what was happening.

A tall boy with blue eyes and a mass of blond hair held my guitar, studied it from all angles. I sat atop a cardboard box, watching and not daring to make a sound. The boy plucked at one of the strings with obvious dissatisfaction. He turned to me.

“Play it,” he demanded, holding the guitar in offering. I took it from him, shocked and trembling. For a while, he watched my fingers move along the strings as I played different notes, but soon, he closed his eyes to savor the music as I had.

After a time, I stopped playing. His eyes opened.

“Who are you?” I asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I often pass this room to get to my magic class. The sound that drifts into the hallway is hauntingly beautiful. I had to find out what it was.” The boy shrugged as if it didn’t matter and held out his hand. “I’m Jones.”

“Aria,” I answered, taking his hand as the bell rang, signaling the class change.

He smiled and left. All I could hope was that he wouldn’t tell anyone.

Over a month later, Jones and I sat in the storage room. As had become our custom, he sat on a sagging box and watched as I played the instrument I’d chosen for that day. Occasionally, I would attempt to teach him an instrument, though he’d no aptitude for music.

It never worked, and today was an excellent example. After attempting the F major scale for what had to be the millionth time, once again playing every note so horribly wrong that my ears were killing me, Jones passed my French horn back to me.

“Your turn,” he suggested. So I began to play. The door flew open. The movement didn’t faze me. I didn’t stop. The principal and teachers stared. It was like magic.

I closed my eyes, immersing myself in the feeling of the music, imagining other parts to this piece. The cases of my instruments opened, though I had heard no one move. One by one, the instruments joined in, creating a full sound that filled the room and spilled into the halls. The horn was gently pulled from my grasp by an invisible being, freeing my voice. I hummed at first, then vocalized. Nothing I sang became words. They were simply long, beautiful notes.

All too soon, the piece reached its climax and came to an end. I wanted to explore this wordless power more. The instruments, including my horn, returned to their cases, and the latches clicked. Jones beamed at me.

“What’s that for?” I asked, though I already knew, and I was sure my smile matched his.

“You found your magic.”

The next day as I took my seat in homeroom, many overlapping voices bombarded me. It seemed that I had become the talk of the school. The bell rang, and the class quieted.

The teacher addressed me. “Aria, I’ve been told that you have found your magic. Does this mean you will finally be joining our magic classes?”

I couldn’t respond. Teachers never spoke to me. I usually sat voiceless and unimportant in the back of the class, unnoticed by all. That was the way of my magicless world.

“Well? What is this magical talent?” a girl asked, turning around in her seat to look at me. Some other students chimed in. I wished I could turn invisible, as I knew some people could.

“Play your song, Aria,” Jones murmured from his seat beside me.

I swallowed. “Okay.” Despite my worry that everyone would mock my talent, I stood and walked to the front of the room. I closed my eyes. Breathe in, breathe out.

And it began. The strings began the piece, quietly. The bright notes of a piano danced around the room, and a drumbeat began, going into a slow crescendo as the woodwinds made their entrance. The cheery melody of the flutes drew me into the magic. The brass began a fanfare, triumphant, bringing a smile to my face. I knew my classmates were staring. I couldn’t care. The music’s volume increased, the tempo quickened, my heart beat faster and faster and faster. The flutes reached a final, solid high note. The drums made a last rapid flurry of beats, the cymbals crashed, the song ended. My eyes flew open.

The room burst into applause, and I received a standing ovation.

“Music,” the teacher observed as she again took the stage. “No one has had the talent to do what you just did in a very, very long time.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said and returned to my desk, feeling like I was floating on a sea of congratulations and compliments.

Jones smiled. “I think your talent could change the world.”

A soft twinkling of flutes and bells rang overhead.

“Maybe I can.”