Writing+Prompt+-+April+14

__//**Writing Prompt of the Week:**// Music__= Write a story / poem / lyrics / whatever revolving around music. It doesn't have to be literal - any way you want to interpret the prompt is absolutely fine! Just have fun with it

Unknown

Elcy McIntyre

Sitting quietly alone in my cousins room, I spot a case and cannot fight the urge, I open it and I'm completely moved by the way the tender hairs sliding accross the strings sound, the motion of my arm is slow then fast but it moves with grace, I start to move with the sound, blocking everything out, It relaxes me, soothes me in a way I could never explain, I always feel so peaceful when I play, Good or not I cannot see myself never to pick it up again

Meg Bradley
 * Black and White**

The day he told her he didn’t love her anymore, she finished her song.

It always went like that, to tell the truth. She had written exactly as many songs as she had had boyfriends. Which was five. She knew that was more than most girls her age could claim, but other girls didn’t write songs.

Every time she heard the words, “Devon? I…I just don’t think this is working out…” she would sit down at the piano bench. As if they didn’t even belong to her, her long fingers would do a graceful ballet across the black and white keys. There was a chip on middle C, one that she always caught her finger on, and this had given her a little scar, but she didn’t mind.

The music was all that held her together. But this time was different.

Every other time, she hadn’t minded when it had ended. She hadn’t //really// loved any of the other boys. But this one had been special.

She had given him all she had to give, and he had left her empty.

She knew it would take many, many more songs to fill her up again.

Savannah Robinson

Music = Life

Scribbled notes fill the page. A girl's voice begins to fill the room. Her coarse fingertips find their home on the cold steel strings. The world around her begins to blur. Her worries disappear and her mind clears. She feels the beat in the soles of her worn-out sneakers. Her body begins to move with the notes she plays.

The song fades away... The girl must come back to reality. Oh those bands that once inspired her, have sold out or broken up. Is anything forever? The girl has to listen to her parents complain for having her amp too high. They say she should give up on music and focus on her studies. She just ignores them. Her one track mind is determined and stubborn. For music is all she has that takes her away from this crazy life. For those few minutes, when she plays her songs, She feels like a real person, she gets to live her dream.

Her music was what brought her from the depths of her depressions, It's what gives her energy to get through the long days, It's her coping mechanism, it gives her strength and peace in her mind. Her music defines her. It helped create who she is today. A no longer silent, shy, girl, but a strong soul. A girl who lives life for herself.

Music is dead.

Destroyed... Gone forever... When will it come back? Most likely never.

That depressing feeling i had when i first listened to Lil Wayne... I thought it couldn't possibly get worse until i heard Gucci Mayne.

The 80's and 90's are dead, It's time for me to move on. But where to move to? Music is gone.

The rise of Tool gave me a hint of hope. But they refuse to release mp3s, will they live on? Ide have to say nope.

Rappers and Pop stars tore music apart. That doesn't matter though. Real music will always remain in my heart. -Eric Kamm

Have you ever sat and sang with trees? Have you ever paused in your refrain? Have you swung up into leaves, singing like the birds? When have you sat beside the bear as he shuffled to his beat? Did you fly with the geese, adding the alto, and clapping as you landed? Have you leaned down with ears to the stream, smiling as the fish swished on by? As you can see, life has music, each to it's own little rythm. The trees and planting and little things all dancing to their own. Between your stressed and busy lives, I'm going to ask one more question. Have you ever sat and //listened?//

mine isnt done yet so... ...chew on this for a little while: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UUXBCdt5IPg

sarah baule.
 * audio blood.**

//Music is what feelings sound like.//

“Something just brushed up against my foot.” She doesn’t make an exclamation out of it, lets out no cliché, girlish squeak of surprise: she almost intones it, like she’s hanging back, narrating the scene from a distance instead of being an active participant in it. It’s kind of endearing, really, but I don’t say anything about it, opting instead to take another swallow of my drink. “Well? Aren’t you going to help me? Shit, Ira, show a little compassion. At least //look// like you’re concerned.” “Lena, we’re in a bar, and it’s packed with people. I’d be more surprised if you decided to ruminate on why you //didn’t// feel something brush up against your foot.” “When something drags me behind the counter and eats me, I’m going to haunt the ever-loving //life// out of you.” This is Lena, and she’s a little weird. I guess it’s why we’re friends; we can appreciate each other’s oddities. Plus, it’s nice, being a part of the in-jokes and obscure references to past events; I’d envy the girls in middle-school whose exclusions were only accidental, by way of pre-established relationships: nothing acidic, nothing stuffed with //snark// – “Ira. //Ira//. God, only you could be lost in thought when your ear-drums are being ravaged by bad tech-work.” She’s referring to the band playing – they’re all too skinny and pale, trying too hard to be hipsters when they come off as little more than imposters of the scene; of course, their tech-work is terrible. They’re not the reason I came here, and it shows: I make a face, and Lena laughs. “Not every band can be your beacon of shining light – or, wait, what did you call them again?” “Her,” I correct, a knee-jerk reaction. “I called //her// something, and if you repeat it, I will kick your teeth so far into your skull, you’ll have to pry them out with a crowbar.” “Tone down the violence, honey,” she says, voice dripping saccharine, shit-eating grin firmly in place. “I just thought the world needed to know how //eloquent// you got when it came to front-women. Why, you’re like a groupie Shakespeare.” “That doesn’t even make //sense//,” I say, but I don’t have time to follow that statement up with something a little wittier: //she’s// coming on stage all of a sudden … and she’s in a pirate’s hat. There’s not a lot you can say that’ll make sense or even approach coherent when the girl of your dreams is standing not twenty feet from you on a dirty stage, looking like a cutlass from a high-sea adventure or one of those dollar-store bodice-rippers. “//Oh//,” Lena says, smirk set firmly in place. “Well, I can see she’s rendered you speechless. I’ll leave you to your subsequent daydreaming session, then.” She pulls a cigarette out of her jeans pocket and then fishes around for her lighter with absurdly elegant, dark fingers. “I’ll go catch a smoke before I have to come back and clean the drool from your face, then.” I nod curtly at her, and that’s her cue to duck through the crowd, towards the exit. I take the time between Lena’s low-key exit and the band’s – they’re calling themselves the (oddly appropriate, given their swashbuckling attire) Disgraceful Knaves this week; last week, it was the Pink Ladies, complete with the matching jackets; the week before that, it was Cheerful Barnyard Damage (they dressed in overalls and flannel and performed twang and blues, the front woman’s vocals dipping and soaring) – opening song to contemplate, once more, why I’m here this week, just like the past few weeks – it’s a rather simple story: girl goes to show on a whim, girl develops embarrassing crush on unattainable front woman, semi-stalking ensues. I’d be abashed at the frequency with which I come to their shows, but I’m usually too busy planning out our life together like a love-sick preteen. The band’s music is comforting because it’s familiar – excluding the show they played as Cheerful Barnyard Damage, they stick to the same old rock staples: usually, they begin with something soft, a rough-edged ballad that’s uncharacteristic for the genre; once the crowd has achieved a fairly placid state of mind, they rip into something by the Kinks or the Smiths, a little edgier and catchier without being off-putting. Eden (the front woman, of course; I’d feel bad for knowing her name, but her band mates has already established that fact through on-stage banter) will save the snarling for last, when everyone’s worked up enough to start moshing or fighting or almost screwing right there on the makeshift dance floor. She’ll scream like a banshee until she’s red in the face, roll her head around until her hair’s a mess, stomp around like she owns the bar – shit, like she owns the //world//. It’s mesmerizing. I can’t //possibly// be the only one harboring a crush on this bewitcher. Tonight is no exception, as far as the performance goes. Eden keeps the status quo by continuing to rock the house, and the band keeps the beat behind her. Their banter is laced with a manic sort of energy that comes from doing what they love and doing it //well//, and I find myself chuckling along with their brand of humor like I’m a part of //their// in-joke. After their performance is over, Eden doesn’t retreat back-stage like normal: she hops down from her perch above the crowd (it’s only a short jump, but she lands with a thud that’s audible even to me, way in the back of the room) and saunters over to the bar. I don’t have time to do something stupid and dramatic like faint or start to hyperventilate; she plunks down on the stool next to me and flags the bartender over. I’m so close to her, I can see the details of her sweat-ruined make-up. She orders something in a voice wrecked from an hour’s worth of yelping and growling, and swigs half the thing in one go. “Good show,” I say before I can help myself, and she flinches at the sound of my voice before turning to me. She smiles toothily. “Thanks. Glad to see there are people here for the music itself instead of the, uh, social benefits it offers.” “I’m definitely not here for social reasons. I just like the music.” “Good, good.” Her face changes – her eyes glaze over a bit – and then she asks, “Hey, have I seen you here before? I mean, no shit, you clearly like the music, just … you look //really// familiar.” “I’ve caught the past couple of performances you guys put on, if that’s what you’re asking.” “You’ve dragged yourself here before for //my// band? That’s dedication.” She takes another gulp of whatever she ordered, and she chuckles. “I should make you the president of my fan club or something, man.” I twist my fingers nervously together – I feel like an idiot, really; I rarely get nervous enough around someone to revert back to old habits – and laugh a little. “Yeah, my friend thinks I’m kind of a hardcore groupie or something.” “Oh, a //groupie//?” She lets out a little titter. “Well, that’s different. That’s an //entirely// different sort of dedication. You wanna be my groupie, is that it?” The pause that ensues is //unbearable//. “//Oh//,” she says, and she sounds like Lena (who, I must note, is thankfully not present; she’s probably still outside, chatting with another smoker). “I – look, this is a little uncomfortable, I know, but – I’m sorry. I’m //really// sorry.” It’s like I can’t shut my mouth. “I’m so sorry for … I’m sorry.” Eden runs a hand through her hair and turns to look me in the eye – physically //turns// her body towards me. I feel like I’m being caged in between her and whoever’s behind me. It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling, though the context is just //off// enough to add a bit of discomfort into the mix. “Don’t apologize,” she says. “I’m definitely not upset.” It takes me a moment to get it, mostly because I’m still reeling from embarrassment. “You’re … not?” I splutter, and I can feel my cheeks heat up. “No. How about I pay for that drink of yours, and we can get out of here. That sound alright? My apartment’s only a few blocks away, but if that’s a little too bold, then I can just drive you home, and I’ll see you at the show next week.” “I’ll … I’ll go tell my friend to take the car home, and you can drive me.” “//Sweet//,” she says, the grin on her face triumphant and a little goofy. Before we get up to leave, she asks, “Hey, what’s your name? I didn’t catch it, if you said it.” “I’m Ira,” I answer, and Eden repeats it, rolling the ‘r’ with her tongue. “It suits you,” she comments, and then we’re off, making our way through the dwindling crowd and out into the night.

__**And I Watched. . .**__ //josh pape//

I Cry In My Minds Eye For the Sky Wich can't seem to wash away This Pain This Lie Inside The Art that Lies Beneath my Heart Dying so slow Lying so still

And it breaks me, All of the feelings, And it shakes me Of all other feelings!!!

I Cry In My Minds Eye For the Sky Wich can't seem to wash away This Pain This Lie Inside The Art that Lies Beneath my Heart Dying so slow Lying so still

And they hate me, seething so slow, But they Make me, and i can't let them GO!!!

I Cry In My Minds Eye For the Sky Wich can't seem to wash away This Pain This Lie Inside that Lies The Art Beneath my Heart Dying so slow Lying so still