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Post by christianwiess on Jan 3, 2012 20:30:16 GMT -6
Christian sat in the common room, his blue eyes glued to the notebook in front of him as he hurriedly scrawled out the words that had been trapped in his head. The untidy handwriting was probably illegible to anyone by him, though, it was questionable at times whether he could even decipher his hurried writing. But when you have a thought in your head, a brainwave, light bulb going off idea, you don’t really care about taking a second to slow down and consider your penmanship. If you did, you’d probably end up losing the idea, watching your train of thought puff away with nothing to show for it. So frankly, who cared if it looked like your note book was scribbled in by a four year old? Not Christian, that was for sure.
His favourite, trusty guitar, was sitting on the couch next to him, protectively cradled loosely under his arm, as though he was worried someone would take it. And he was worried. It had happened a couple of times. This place was full of, well for lack of a better word, psychos, and it on more than one occasion, he’d been forced to fend people off when they tried to make off with his precious. OK, that was a slight exaggeration, it had happened one time, but that was enough for Christian to become a bit paranoid. He loved his guitars more than he loved himself, and he took their safety very seriously. Putting down his pen, he lifted the notebook up, reading what he had just written. With a small smile he nodded to himself, yeah, that would do nicely. He picked the guitar up, settling it on his lap, and started plucking out the first part of a melody,
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Post by ivan on Feb 1, 2012 15:36:47 GMT -6
Walking into the common room with his backpack, Ivan had been planning to just sit and study for a while. That is, until he saw someone playing guitar. Curiosity filling him, he sat beside the other student, listening for a moment. "Not bad. Did you write that yourself?" He'd written his own music before, and while he was fairly sure their styles were different, Ivan was longing for someone to talk to about music. He barely talked to anyone as it was, finding it hard to find common ground with a lot of the other students here. He found music to be easier to talk about than anything else, though. While there were a lot of things he didn't know about, music wasn't one of them. Ivan understood music, it was just part of who he was.
Besides, making music wasn't as much fun when you were trying to figure out how to do all of it on your own. Sure, he could play several instruments and sang, but being a one-man band wasn't much fun. He missed his old band, the guys that had become like brothers to him. He wondered what they were doing, if they'd found a new front man, or if they were waiting for him to come back. He wouldn't blame them for replacing them. Hell, it was what he would have done. It wasn't fair to expect life outside to stop just because his had. The world kept turning, even if he wasn't where he wanted to be. He still thought that this school was better than a prison, even if not by much. The food was definitely better, from what he knew. And he still had access to stuff to make music. Considering that he could be in a prison for what he'd done, he felt that Blackwood was a lucky break. One of the first he'd had in a while.
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Post by christianwiess on Feb 2, 2012 23:13:51 GMT -6
Christian was too involved with what he was doing, his fingers moving confidently along the strings, to notice when someone sat down. His head was bent over the guitar, his eyes closed, feeling the song building in his head as he played. A small smile curved on his lips. Yeah, this was golden. Had he been in his room rather than sitting out here in the common area, there was a good chance that he would have started to sing his newly scribbled out lyrics. His eyes opened when someone spoke, interrupting his thoughts and causing his fingers to stumble slightly on the chords. Well that was a pain in the ass. He took a moment to get back into the steady flow he’d been a moment earlier before he turned to the speaker.
“ Not bad? I would say it’s a tad bit better than ‘not bad’, thank you very much.” he said, the ever present sarcastic tone making itself heard. “ But thanks, yeah I wrote it myself.” he said. As if he’d play someone else’s music, that was like wiping someone else’s ass. Weird, wrong, and just not something people should do. When someone would amble by as he was practicing and ‘request’ a song, it was like throwing sand in his face. He got that some people just don’t care, but still, have some respect. He looked at the other guy, taking a second to glance at his hands. It was a habit for Christian, and he found himself doing it without even noticing. He was looking for those telltale calluses on the tips of this guy’s fingers, not that he wouldn’t talk to someone who wasn’t a musician or anything, it was just something he found himself doing, some people looked in your eyes to see if you were a good person, Christian looked at your fingers. How could you have music in your blood and be bad? Not possible. OK, possible, but somehow more forgivable. He smiled a little, slender as this guy’s hands were, there they were. See, instantly more trustworthy. “ You play?” he asked, still playing the new chords as he looked at the guy.
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