To Feliciano, Ludwig is the cello. Dependable. Strong. Steady. Always holding back his true potential, keeping to the background though a powerful presence resonates deep within, able to support the whole of an orchestra with his own strength, lending power to the voices of the v(more)iolins and violas as their melodies weave together. But Feli wishes that Ludwig would stand on his own. Because the cello can transform from a low rumble to the bittersweet lament. Joyous tunes to eerie dirges that tinge the air with unease. From soft to powerful and back again, until the notes become as essential as the beating of the heart.
Cellos are more beautiful than they realize. And maybe Ludwig too will realize this.(less)
The sun dimmed. Everything was being covered by a sepia orange, as I buried my feet into the white sand. I'm so far away from the life I used to love, the life I would've died for. Things have its way of changing like that, I guess. I still(more) can't stop thinking about lucky we we were. How right now we still experience the same physical laws, breathe the same air, but search a different love. A soft melody of emotion curse through me, increase my breathing, play with my heart. My eyes have been drowned for way too long, all I have left is handful of memories. I grab my guitar. With a whisper I send them with the wind.
'A simple life, in youthful bliss
St Augustine envied
we had a childish bond he'd say
a lesson in time
I will never regret
I'll embrace the good with the bad
I wish we could just be cool.'
They listen to the radio in the mornings.
It's always been a tradition for them, even when the radios were larger (and in the night, they would secretly find the BBC and reassure themselves that the war would end) they would turn it on in the mornings and squabble(more) good-naturedly over what to listen to.
They still do; their mornings are a mix of the smells of coffee and orange juice and toast and "no, Ludwig, we listened to this station yesterday-"
"And it was good and I like this song, and you picked it yesterday." And Feliciano rolls his eyes and turns down the music a little, but hums along anyway and spreads jam on his toast.
Quiet Gershwin follows him out the door to work, and when he comes home it's his turn to choose, and soft violins continue through preparation for dinner.
It's a part of their relationship that hasn't changed at all, although they don't need to hide to listen to English radio anymore.(less)
Alice was struck first by the music that was playing as she entered the restaurant. It was a simple, classically played guitar, acoustic by its tone. It sounded live, but she couldn't see the player anywhere.
It was a small place, family owned, but it had a ver(more)y high-class edge to it, so no one at school had ever been there - or at least not that she knew of, which was saying somethig. She'd seen it a couple times, but had never been in it.
Her new group of friends consisted of an odd bunch, but they found odd ways to get along, so it worked out. Jake was the most quiet spoken of them. He gave a very rough and cold appearance, but when they got to know him, they had found he was really a kind and loyal friend, just didn't want people to know it. They let him have his way, but they knew.
After school, Jake had pulled her aside on her way out. She had caught her looking at her every once in a while, and he seemed nervous pulling her aside. Suddenly, he had placed a business card in her hands for the restaurant she was now in, asked her to come at seven, and run off.
So now she was there, and as the waiter sat her down, finally she saw the musician. Up in a corner, dressed very well and cleaned up, was Jake, acoustic guitar in his lap, playing his simple, beautiful, and soft music. On either side was a fireplace, flames crackling to the music. He glanced up, and for a moment they made eye contact. Alice smiled, and Jake blushed and look back down at his fingers. (less)
She walked slowly through the aisles of the store, sliding her hand against all the linens. Each fabric coaxed her skin into bliss. She closed her eyes.
In music, pianissimo means "very soft". The space just above where sound doesn't exist. Sometimes she felt that's what her life was.(more) Pianissimo. Just slightly above not being there at all.
She took a deep breath, the different textures ebbing in and out of her senses. Terry cloth. Cotton. Silk. She felt like this was also she could control. The way her bed would feel around her as she sunk into it.
The PA system gurgled an unintelligible string of advertisement, then proceeded on with its muzak. She could hear footsteps around her as people shopped. She could hear her own footsteps on the tile, a slight click click.
She could hear someone breathing just inches away.
She opened her eyes. A blue-vested employee was just beside her, stocking sheets. He had headphones in that were blaring loud heavy metal. He didn't appear to notice her.
She watched him. He looked to be in his late twenties-- close to her age-- with dirty blonde hair and prominent cheek bones. She could see the top of a tattoo on the back of his neck, peeking up over the collar of his t-shirt.
She said, "Excuse me." But he did not hear her. Usually she would have given up, slunk away. But there was something about him. The noise of his music.
She tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, took out an ear phone. "How may I help you?"
She could feel her insides vibrating like cello strings. She pushed the vibrations, made them louder, until she heard her own voice saying, audibly. "Hi, I'm Laura. When do you get off work?"
He plays soft piano, pianissimo, because more noise than that hurts his sensitive and sore ears. Alexander closes his eyes and lets his fingers drift over the ivory, pluckin notes and chords out of thin air and pressing them under his fingerprints.
(more) He always loves music.
As Ryan, he plays music softly through the day to help him sleep. Jeff, if he's there, doesn't seem to notice it--or if he does, he never mentions it. Ryan is fairly sure that it's played below the range of Jeff's hearing.
He loves his music loud, in some lives; as Damien, he strums out heavy chords on his metal guitar strings on the highest setting of his amp, singing along as he records himself to play on the Internet. As Corbin, he hacks his music player to go beyond the noise limit and plays it louder than his parents would like to hear--but it's not like they bother him about it (he wishes they would). As Lenore, she danced to music played over a loudspeaker, almost too loud for her to hear over the rush of dancing. (less)
Soft music has its place, for sure. The dentist's office, the elevator, the airport lounge, your parents' car. But its place is not Friday afternoon in your apartment. No matter how worn out you are from the week's work, your commute, your constant, unending fights with your significant other(more) and your asshole flakey friends screwing up your weekend plans ALREADY, you have an obligation to yourself to celebrate. The week is over. You made it.
So you bring your bedraggled self through the door. You take off your office clothes and put on whatever makes you feel comfortable and yourself. You have a snack, or a glass of wine, or a bowl, or whatever you need to put in your body to give you the proper attitude adjustment. And then you pick the song that you cannot live without, the one that feels like the internal equivalent of the hot sun on your face and shoulders after a long, brutal winter. And you put it on.
He could feel the wind dance around his head like wisps trying to lead him forward. It reminded him of music, quiet music, soft music. The kind that one might sway their head to while enjoying a mug of tea. So he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply(more) feeling the cool air swirl inside him before letting it out.
For all intents are purposes Dan's room was quiet. But not to Dan. He calmly sat down into his rocking chair and allowed it to make it's customary creaking noise. As it did he let out a sigh of relieve not too dissimilar to those made after a long(more) day. As he sat he closed his eyes and allowed a smile to form on the cusps of lips just under his mustache. Dan focused on the sound of the clock. He forced a long creak from the chair which made a sound that passed right through him. Not in a nails on a board way, but in a way that makes your hairs stand on end and lights up the world. He allowed himself to move his body in a manner to make the creaks of the chair into a wonderful melody. He based the melody around the tick of his old pocket clock. A time piece from a life far away, but never forgotten. He added a third layer by tapping his fingers on his leg. Whilst the ticking of the clock was fast, the creaks of the chair and the rhythm of his fingers were slow. He created a piece, in his mind, that rivaled the greats. He could not stop. Not as long as the clock ticked and the chair creaked. This was his connection to music. Dan may have been too old to conduct a real orchestra, but no one could stop him conducting his room. (less)
As if a hypnotic trance had been placed on him, he subconsciously began to sway with the music. From side to side, ever so gently, his body moved with the sound of the smooth jazz. A mug of green tea was cupped in his hands, swishing around just softly(more) enough for it to remain in its ceramic encasing. From time to time he would take a short sip of the liquid, the feeling of warmth in his hands being enough to push him into a state of daydream and lucid thoughts.
Is this, he thought to himself, is this what heaven feels like? A constant state of bliss, in which the music would run on repeat, and his cup always be full. Where the notes played never dulled and his body never cold. He didn't know what his beliefs really were, but one thing was sure. This was a state he never wanted to leave.(less)
the impact, as one, couldn't even really be considered as that.
the touch of palm to palm is more of an electric impulse than anything else, a soft barely there sound of two hands meeting and fingers interlocking like they're meant to as soft music continues playing in th(more)e background and two friends face off with the big bad thing, no better word for it, that's been after them for a while and has
caught up with the two and they really do not know what to expect but they're alright with it they're used to having no goal and they've decided to take things as they come not demand them from anything or anyone because whatever comes they'll still be there for eachother
and to be fair there's only a few choices from here: they either heel or they get separated. maybe they run.
but what if they don't heed to the choices they've been given but make their own because they know that whatever happens, life without a friend is empty and pointless
and they're not ready to give up not ready to grow up yet because they've still got the right and chance to freedom and it would be a laugh if they don't make it and don't end up in Vienna wondering what could have happened if they didn't do what they did and clutching matching teacups when they can't clutch each other's hands because they're still there they're still together and they'll remain so until they can't anymore(less)