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The sun over Cedar Street didn’t shine, it baked. It turned the asphalt into a shimmering, tar-scented haze and made the brick of the project duplexes feel like the walls of an oven.
It was mid-July, the kind of heat that made the adults retreat behind screen doors and oscillating fans, but for six-year-old Céyah, the heat was just a
stage light.
She was small for her age, but she occupied space like a giant. Barefoot, her toes dusted with the grey grit of the sidewalk, she stood on the top step of the cracked concrete porch.
Her hair was gathered into four thick puffs, tied with mismatched plastic bobbles that clacked together whenever she moved. And Céyah was always moving.
“I got a nickel in my pocket and a hole in my shoe!” she belted out, her voice surprisingly raspy and resonant for a child.
It wasn’t a song anyone knew—it was a song she was building, brick by brick, right there in the humid air.
“The ice cream man is coming, but I don’t want no blue! Give me the red, give me the cherry, make me feel like a little strawberry!”
She stomped her foot on the "cherry," the vibration traveling through the hollow concrete. She was loud, she was proud, and she was entirely oblivious to the world around her until a new sound cut through her melody.
"Thump. Click-clack. Thump."
Céyah stopped mid-note, her mouth still open. She looked down the steps.
Sitting on the curb of the unit next door was a boy. He was older—maybe seven—and he was the strangest-looking person Céyah had ever seen.
He was lanky, his limbs like long, pale willow branches, and he was dressed in an oversized white t-shirt that hung off his bony shoulders. But it was his hair that stopped her.
It wasn’t blonde like the kids she saw on the TV commercials; it was a shocking, ghostly white-platinum, cropped close to his head but shimmering like polished silver in the sun.
He didn't look at her. He was focused on a flipped-over five-gallon plastic paint bucket nestled between his knees. In his hands were two sturdy sticks he’d clearly scavenged from the alley.
"Thump-thump. Click."
He hit the center of the bucket for the bass, then snapped the sticks against the rim for the snare. His eyes—a piercing, icy blue that looked like frozen water—were fixed on the bucket with an intensity that felt heavy.
Céyah hopped down one step, her brow furrowed. She didn't like being interrupted. “Hey! You’re messing up my song!”
The boy didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up. He just shifted his rhythm. It became slower, a dragging, heavy beat that echoed the sound of a heart beating behind a tired chest.
"Thump... " pause... " thump-thump."
Céyah descended the rest of the steps, her bare feet hitting the hot pavement. She marched over until she was standing right in front of him, her shadow falling over his bucket. She was a chubby kid even then, sturdy and grounded, a stark contrast to the boy’s ethereal, fragile appearance.
“I said you’re messing me up,” she repeated, her hands landing on her hips. “And stop playing that. It sounds sad.”
Finally, the sticks stopped. The boy looked up. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, showing the faint blue veins at his temples. Up close, his eyes weren't just blue; they were sharp, like glass.
They held a weight that didn't belong to a seven-year-old. It was the look of someone who had already seen things worth forgetting.
He stared at her for a long time. He didn't apologize. He didn't ask her name. He just looked at her puffy hair, her fierce brown eyes, and the way she stood like she owned the whole block.
Slowly, his thin lips pulled into a ghost of a smirk. He didn't say a word. Instead, he lifted the sticks.
"Rat-a-tat-tat!"
He exploded into a bright, syncopated rhythm. It was fast, bouncy, and mimicked the exact cadence of the 'strawberry' line she had just been singing.
He hit the sides of the bucket, the rim, and even clicked the sticks together over his head. It wasn't sad anymore. It sounded like a party. It sounded like an invitation.
Céyah’s anger evaporated instantly. Her eyes widened, and a wide, gap-toothed grin broke across her face. She started to bounce on the balls of her feet, the rhythm catching in her chest.
“Yeah!” she chirped, clapping her hands. “Like that! Play it like that!”
She started singing again, but this time, she wasn’t just making noise. She was following him. He watched her—really watched her—his icy eyes tracking her movements as he adjusted the beat to match the power of her lungs.
For the next hour, the heat didn't matter. The trash in the gutters didn't matter. There was just the girl with the voice like honey and the boy with the hair like winter, creating a world of their own on a cracked curb on Cedar Street.
When his mother finally called him in, the boy stood up, his lanky frame unfolding like a folding chair. He picked up his bucket and his sticks.
“I’m Céyah,” she shouted as he retreated toward his door.
He paused at the screen door, the shadows of the porch swallowing his pale skin. He looked back at her, his white hair glowing in the twilight.
“Zion,” he whispered.
It was the first time she heard his voice—low, quiet, and steady.
He disappeared inside, but the rhythm he’d started stayed in Céyah’s head, humming in her blood, long after the sun went down.
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Hi guys hope you liked the first chapter of sound of the Mud. Zion is lowkey inspired by MGK !! Plz like comment and vote ⭐️
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The Sound of the MUD
RomanceIn the concrete canyons of Cedar Street, music wasn't a hobby-it was a lifeline. Céyah was a girl who was born with a firey temper and a voice like liquid honey, a R&B prodigy who sang to drown out the sirens. Zion was the "Snowmen" a lanky prod...
