The Wordless Hymn — A Work of (Micro)Fiction

Rune cannot speak —

that is what her mother told her before she ever tried. 

In the kitchen her father scrubs his knuckles while her mother smiles up at the God of ceiling paint bubbles. Her brother watches her chew her food over mustard yellow undereyes. “You can find anything on the Internet these days,” he tells no one in particular. 

On the playground her classmates take turns depositing breathy secrets into her ears: “I peed behind the slide” or “I have a crush on Peter” or “My cousin is the one who blew up that church.” 

One day the CD skips during music class. All is silent but for a thready little hum that is determined to belong to Rune. “A miracle!” the teacher declares, although the color has left his face. 

The celebration takes place at Rune’s home that evening. Nearly the entire town is in attendance: the butcher, the postman, the priest, the mayor, her classmates alongside their parents. Each of them smiling with every last one of their teeth and extending handfuls of overripe fruit, bread that sags like skin.

“I always knew my little girl had it in her,” says her mother. 

The food sloshes around in Rune’s belly as hands guide her up, up, up to the balcony overlooking the crowd. A gust of wind whirls confetti around her head, settling like a crown. Her crucifix-shaped body releases a howl that rings in people’s ears and vibrates beneath their feet.

The next sound is a communal exhale. 

Morning comes. The street is spotless. No one remembers what they confessed.