Sassy Samba and the Island of Symphony
In the Toastmaster Storytelling Manual, Advanced Speech Project 3: Moral of the Story required me to write an original story that gives, well, a moral lesson.
This is the story I wrote and, more or less, delivered.
Once upon a time, on a small island called Symphony, there lived a girl.
The girl's name is Sassy. Sassy Samba.
The island of Symphony is known to be the home of people blessed with musical talent. Symphonians, as the people call themselves, are all adept at playing string, percussion and wind instruments—violins, cellos, drums, cymbals, flutes, trumpets—the island is a veritable orchestra.
Sounds fun! Sounds awesome! Well, not quite. At least not for Sassy.
See, for Sassy, living on Symphony was not actually very harmonious.
For all other Symphonians, Sassy seemed like a misplaced note on a measure, a tad off tempo, of a different tone. Or just plain weird.
Now, it's not as if Sassy can't play any of the island's instruments. Like any other Symphonian, she could—pretty well even. She's just sometimes--well, oftentimes--different.
Sassy, fancies herself an inventor and innovator. Often, she'd do away with the bow and instead pluck the strings of a violin. Sometimes, she throws away the sticks and uses her palms to strike the drums.
“Absolutely, outrageous,” says one neighbor.
“Utterly disrespectful!” cries another.
One day, Sassy goes and pushes the envelope. One afternoon, she thinks of making her own instrument. She figures, why not make small cymbals, put them in a circular mould and then stretch some leather over one side of the mould. And to produce sound, the whole thingamajig must be shaken or struck with the palm.
So she does. She calls her invention a tambourine.
“I have created a new instrument! The others will like it. We'll add it to the current instruments of Symphony," she thinks to herself.
Proud of her work, she goes to the village square and starts shaking and striking tune.
But Sassy must have pushed too far.
“Sacrilege!” roars the Symphonians.
“Why can't you just be normal?” says the villagefolk.
“Why do you have to be so different? Stupid girl!”
And the Symphonians drives her out of the village, to the edge of the island.
There, at the island's shore, alone, Sassy begins to cry.
“I just wanted to make music,” she says.
“Maybe there is something wrong with me.”
“Now don't start believing their drivel.” she hears a man say.
She looks to where the voice came from and looking back at her is a guy wearing a smile.
“Hi, I'm Raffy. Raffy Reggae. And I'd love to hear you play that...what did you call it again?”
Sassy wipes away her tears, “It's a tambourine. But no one likes it.”
“Well, you don't know that for sure yet. I want to show you something. An instrument I made. I call it a guitar. Let's play together.”
So they do. Sassy shakes her tambourine, Raffy plucks and strums his guitar. And, at least for the both of them, the create good rhythm.
And there, in the middle of the beach, under the moonlight, Sally feels in tune. She starts to feel that different does not mean wrong. Different does not mean bad. Different is okay. She thinks, she just needed to find the right band.
And at that moment, and for moments in the future, Samba and Reggae play on Symphony.
This is the story I wrote and, more or less, delivered.
Once upon a time, on a small island called Symphony, there lived a girl.
The girl's name is Sassy. Sassy Samba.
The island of Symphony is known to be the home of people blessed with musical talent. Symphonians, as the people call themselves, are all adept at playing string, percussion and wind instruments—violins, cellos, drums, cymbals, flutes, trumpets—the island is a veritable orchestra.
Sounds fun! Sounds awesome! Well, not quite. At least not for Sassy.
See, for Sassy, living on Symphony was not actually very harmonious.
For all other Symphonians, Sassy seemed like a misplaced note on a measure, a tad off tempo, of a different tone. Or just plain weird.
Now, it's not as if Sassy can't play any of the island's instruments. Like any other Symphonian, she could—pretty well even. She's just sometimes--well, oftentimes--different.
Sassy, fancies herself an inventor and innovator. Often, she'd do away with the bow and instead pluck the strings of a violin. Sometimes, she throws away the sticks and uses her palms to strike the drums.
“Absolutely, outrageous,” says one neighbor.
“Utterly disrespectful!” cries another.
One day, Sassy goes and pushes the envelope. One afternoon, she thinks of making her own instrument. She figures, why not make small cymbals, put them in a circular mould and then stretch some leather over one side of the mould. And to produce sound, the whole thingamajig must be shaken or struck with the palm.
So she does. She calls her invention a tambourine.
“I have created a new instrument! The others will like it. We'll add it to the current instruments of Symphony," she thinks to herself.
Proud of her work, she goes to the village square and starts shaking and striking tune.
But Sassy must have pushed too far.
“Sacrilege!” roars the Symphonians.
“Why can't you just be normal?” says the villagefolk.
“Why do you have to be so different? Stupid girl!”
And the Symphonians drives her out of the village, to the edge of the island.
There, at the island's shore, alone, Sassy begins to cry.
“I just wanted to make music,” she says.
“Maybe there is something wrong with me.”
“Now don't start believing their drivel.” she hears a man say.
She looks to where the voice came from and looking back at her is a guy wearing a smile.
“Hi, I'm Raffy. Raffy Reggae. And I'd love to hear you play that...what did you call it again?”
Sassy wipes away her tears, “It's a tambourine. But no one likes it.”
“Well, you don't know that for sure yet. I want to show you something. An instrument I made. I call it a guitar. Let's play together.”
So they do. Sassy shakes her tambourine, Raffy plucks and strums his guitar. And, at least for the both of them, the create good rhythm.
And there, in the middle of the beach, under the moonlight, Sally feels in tune. She starts to feel that different does not mean wrong. Different does not mean bad. Different is okay. She thinks, she just needed to find the right band.
And at that moment, and for moments in the future, Samba and Reggae play on Symphony.
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