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TOPIC: Brain Fart Owning [ - critique, please? one new entry and updated title post. - ]

Scorchheart

ShadowClan Warrior

Status: Offline

Posts: 4045

Date: Mar 21, 2010

RE: Brain Fart Owning [ - two random "so you think you can roleplay" entries; "society" and "unrestricted". - ]	Permalink

Awesome! I can't wait to see more! 8D __________________

Souki

Rogue

Status: Offline

Posts: 750

Date: Jun 3, 2010

Brain Fart Owning [ - critique, please? one new entry and updated title post. - ]	Permalink

[this was written awhile ago--april 28, 2010 to be specific, and as the title indicates, i wrote it in thirty minutes. i didn't look over it after typing it, but i did after i posted it, and so if there are any glaring mistakes, i missed them the first time around. can be found on my dA and on my fanfictions thread. dA link is here: http://solunasunwell.deviantart.com/art/thirty-minutes-162296211?q=sort:time+gallery:solunasunwell&qo=2 edit to fix the spacing after italics. ] THIRTY MINUTES He had never been much of a talker. Awkward with people and an only child with parents that were perpetually occupied by either arguing, work, or their ever-increasing-in-frequency affairs (it was a miracle they were both still alive and married to one another), he had kept to himself, his only company being books, paper and pencils, his pet cat, and his piano. Books were a given--they were a way to escape life and its endless, never ending array of problems. They spoke of worlds were miracles were possible, where everyone, even the most undeserving swine, had a happy ending. All that reading gave a young boy with not much to do plenty of ideas, and it was ever so easy to disappear into a world of graphite and paper and bright colors, where everything was warm, forgiving, perfect. And yet there was only so much time reading and drawing could occupy. The grey tabby, a gift from his parents when times hadn't been so bad, was his only companion. Other animals seemed averse to him, and since he cared not for human company, only the small cat offered hint of physical interaction, a tangible friendship. His small circle of animal friends had once included a small yellow song bird, but during a fight between his parents in which tempers had risen higher than normal, he had awoken to find the cage empty, a few almost invisible crimson stains on the carpet being all that was left of the bird's last song, a sorrowful melody that told the heartbroken boy all he had needed to know. Lives, after all, were so fragile, liable to break with a careless touch as a careless word. And then there was the piano. His piano. The one thing, perhaps other than the tabby, that commanded more of his heart, his soul. There was so much you could convey through music that he could never hope to read through books, or express through his colorful drawings. While his passable art was the result a lifetime spent doodling as the heated arguments drifted through the empty house throughout the night, he showed a true calling for the piano. And unlike his art, which did not come close to showing his frame of mind, almost always of a false, bright nature with warm, lying colors, all his hours spent locked up with the grand with pillows under the door crack produced only heart wrenching melodies which told tales of a lonely boy loved by no one. The piano always cried loudest during his parents' arguments. They were always shouting too loudly to hear his entreaties, or else cared little for the pleas given life by metal and wood. And so he'd continued to live, if live is correct a word for the empty, music-fueled, ambitionless existence he led after his parents gave him his own apartment to 'get rid of that incessant, infernal noise'. If he spent an unhealthy amount of time with the piano after moving out, it was nothing compared to how he seemed to survive only on the notes alone after part of his soul died. He could not bring himself to replace the tabby who had stuck with him through the toughest years of his life, and although it seemed that the already-empty existence of the lonely man without a soul to call a friend already had surpassed the lowest dredges of humanity, after his loss he became less than a husk, less than a sad marionette given life by some cruel god. He was already in declining health when the firebug struck. An aged man weary of existence before his thirtieth birthday, he could not bear the thought of continuing through the meaningless years before him without the piano, which surely could not be saved. Even despite the firefighters' entreaties, the sad, empty man had chosen to stay and sever the last physical ties to the tragic plane of humanity, and neither hand nor word would convince the man to leave the last bit of his soul to burn in the vicious flames without him. As it had begun with the silent cold, it ended with the crackling heat; and as he had entered fighting every step of the way, he had left with a content smile. -- Edited by Souki on Thursday 3rd of June 2010 03:39:24 AM __________________

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