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The Songwriter And The First Christmas And Other Short Stories

The Songwriter And The First Christmas And Other Short Stories

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The Songwriter And The First Christmas And Other Short Stories

Length:
60 pages
47 minutes
Publisher:
Released:
Dec 22, 2013
ISBN:
9781311157485
Format:
Book

Description

Berakhiah, the temple songwriter can't find anything to write about until an Angel delivers some inspiration. Solomon said there was nothing new under the sun and Berakhiah, the temple songwriter, tends to agree. It seems as though every song has been written and he's depressed until an angel lets him in on some good news. Including two other short stories.

Publisher:
Released:
Dec 22, 2013
ISBN:
9781311157485
Format:
Book

About the author

Chris Morrow is the author of Stir It Up: Reggae Album Cover Art and has written about hip-hop and politics for numerous publications, including The Source and The New York Daily News. A resident of Brooklyn, New York, he has been working as a speechwriter for Russell Simmons since 2003.


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The Songwriter And The First Christmas And Other Short Stories - Chris Morrow

The Songwriter and the First Christmas

and other short stories

by Chris Morrow

with a special thanks to the always clever Paul Stebbins

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Did you like this story?

Read more from Chris Morrow at www.bardandbook.com

Website: www.bardandbook.com

Copyright Chris Morrow 2013. All Rights Reserved

Published by Bard and Book Publishing.

Cover by Julius Broqueza.

Contents

The Songwriter and the First Christmas

Interview with the Big Foot

A Devious Halloween Scheme

The Songwriter and the First Christmas

It was dinner time and everyone had gathered in the great hall for the evening meal. Berakhiah would be lucky if there was anything left. Priests become savages around the table.

He sighed and ran his fingers through his graying hair and stared at the empty page before him. It would be easy to just let it go until tomorrow, to go fill his belly and get some rest. Maybe tomorrow inspiration would strike him and he would write again, something wonderful, something that would invigorate the temple musicians and make the masses swoon in the way only a great piece of music can.

His stomach growled. He tried to ignore it. It growled louder.

But he had taken a vow – he would not eat until he had written a great song. Over the course of the last two days he had scaled the vow down to the point that he would not eat until he at least had something – a snippet of a verse or even just a few notes to string together into a melody. A simple carol of bells would suffice. Then he would eat.

Leaning out the window he looked off toward the south and hummed a few random notes. Across those vast dark plains was his boyhood home. He had tilled those memories so many times, memories of his youth in the city of David, the source of much of his inspiration.

Oh little town of Bethlehem, he whispered. He began to hum again but the notes fell like stones from the tower window, disrupting an otherwise silent night. He dropped his chin in his palm and stared up at the clear cold sky and slumped in defeat. The truth was that he’d been stumped for a long time, longer than he cared to admit. Every idea that came was either worthless to the point of being laughable or it had already been done. Solomon was right when he said there was nothing new under the sun. It seemed that man had finally squeezed every bit of inspiration out of God’s great green earth and even Berakhiah – the best songwriter of his day, mind you – could come up with nothing. The well had finally run dry.

His stomach had given up on grumbling suddenly. Resorting to more drastic measures, it sent a sharp pain through his middle. He could feel his resolve crumbling. He turned from the window in time to see a mouse scurrying toward a dark corner of the room. It paused, perked its ears and looked up at him as if to ask, Do you hear what I hear? And indeed, Berakhiah did hear something.

To the mouse he said softly, Probably just thunder. Don’t mind it. I think there’s a storm brewing in the south. He felt his knees starting to go weak from hunger and leaned against a nearby table. "Or maybe it’s just

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