Natasha shook birds until their songs fell out. She collected the songs in a bucket and carried them to her room. Her toy piano was silent and her parents were going to throw it away. It needed a voice. She picked out the feathers stuck in the melodies and pushed each song between the wooden keys. She played a scale. But the piano stayed silent.
She hid the piano under her bed. She slept above it. In the night hush, she imagined notes spilling from the keyboard. When she woke to storms, she stuck her hands out the window into the downpour and grasped rain patter and wind howl. She pushed the sounds into the piano. It stayed silent. When her parents asked her where it was, she shook her head.
In the woods, she gathered leaf crackle and fox creep. Wandering past mills, she filled a bag with water roar and stone grind. She snatched people’s words. She took sounds from seas and towns. Finally the world became silent too.
Rebecca Harrison sneezes like Donald Duck and can be summoned by a cake signal in the sky. Her best friend is a dog who can count. She was a finalist in the first Wyvern Lit flash fiction contest. Her stories can also be read at Pigeon Holes Magazine, Hermeneutic Chaos, Fiction Attic, Remarkable Doorways Magazine, The Fable Online, Maudlin House, and elsewhere.