The Redheaded God

Daily fiction_015 // Tom Curren // Chapter X

Have you heard the Redheaded God?

I would be surprised if you hadn’t. Some have heard him without even knowing it, such is the subtlety of his music.

He sings in the night, and he sings in the day. He sings at bars, to audiences of a few dozen, and he sings on balconies in the night air, to audiences of just one, to waft strangers towards the soft embrace of sleep, and the clutches of dreams stranger than they have ever experienced.

No-one knows who he is, and no-one knows where he came from. All that is known is that his music is unlike any other on this earth, that its touch feels different to everyone who hears it.

Some feel bliss, a wonderful calm that permeates their very skin and touches whatever is beneath. Some feel anger, heat running through their veins like liquor. Some feel a deep, harrowing sadness, an awful melancholy that tears apart their insides and melts hope away like acid. Some feel lust, or frustration, or pain or disgust. Some feel nothing at all.

The Redheaded God cares not.

The last time he felt surprise at the magic of his music — the last time he felt anything, period — was millennia ago, when those who were more than men walked the earth and his guitar was no more than a crude, battered lute, crafted from the crooked branches of an oak tree.

He had sung to a king before his entire court, and roused a nation to war.

Suh trivia does not bother the Redheaded God. He walks the earth still, flitting into dreams like the whisper of the wind, shaping the future of the world. He is as carefree as the rain when it falls.

You will hear his music soon. I am sure of it.

Thank you so much for reading.

I’m Tom Curren — a writer, storyteller and entrepreneur from England. I publish a new short story in Chapter X every single day.

If you liked this, it’d be amazing if you smashed that little heart down below. You’d be moving me one step closer.

Always take the stairs,


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