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The singing tower

The singing tower, a magical story about a city in a misty place.

Guarded by the pillars on top of the city wall, they walked. A little girl and her grandmother. Their braids in red and white, waving on their backs as they went. They stopped to look over the city from above. Behind their backs the ever lukewarm wind came blowing down to the water which lied in the extension of the city. Where the wind came from, should be highland, although no one was really sure. Those who ventured away from the city up and further up, high into the everlasting mist, never returned. The mist came from hot cracks in the soil, peeking between the rocks, making it so that the people lived in an endless cloud. From high upon the city, you couldn’t even make out the other end. The constant warm vapour came out under the water too, making it always damping, spiralling upwards, obscuring the horizon.

Vera was named after little purple flowers, which could be found along the black coast for those who knew where to look. It was one of the most loved colours for clothing, bringing a striking contrast with the flaming red hair of a third of the population. As she looked up to her grandmother, Vera said “Listen, it’s my favourite song!”

Equally present as the never-ending mist, singing filled the city during the hours of diffused light that was day. Emerging from a tower, high up the city, the singers let their voices carry far over the waves by the winds. Acting as a sound house in stead of a light house, guiding the people at the sea back home.

They shifted their eyes to the invisible horizon, somewhere in the mist, rolling over the waves, Vera’s parents were working their boats. Her mother was a one of the fishers, working with their big nets. Her father collected seaweed in farms on the water.

She shared their love for the ocean, the freedom that could be felt on the waves. There was no doubt she would follow in her parent’s footsteps, although her grandmother was convinced her clear voice should join the choir. Everyone had an opinion, but that is supposed to be normal behaviour towards a child. Vera was already wise enough to let it blow over her head, alike the ever warm mist-filled wind.

She already knew her future, for she had seen it in many a dream. Through the mist she would sail. Far and further away. Until she would find lands beyond their cloud-filled world. Land shone upon by light so bright. In her boat she would go beyond the reassuring music, until she couldn’t hear the call anymore.

Row row


Turning away on the water still


Close your eyes to the mist

Your home is singing, singing you home

But she would not be going home. She would sail out of the clouds at the other end.

The end.


If you can’t see where you’re going. Close your eyes and listen, your subconscious is singing to you.



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