Just shy of fucked,
A cracking sound of
Accompanies a grey line moving
Across a screen.
This will be the first I know of you, reciting slowly.
I will close my eyes to find you resemble
One whose body
Was so close to mine,
On a nigh(more)t when window opened and wasp flew in
And Letterman announced over our heavy breath
And I was so full of (him/you) for one last moment
Before we slept one last time
And in the morning pencil marked my wall
(a note of regard)
The voice, like that man
Brings me in and I find
What is a month but 30 odd days?
What is a note but a finite number of characters?
What is love but a phrase?
But without body!
With only a voice and the text:
This was our closet,
Objects upon bodies and books between thighs,
Words stacked on words,
My sister has a terrible voice, if you can say such a thing about the recorder. The recorder is a type of voice, is it not? She must have to learn "Edelweiss" for school, because that's what she keeps playing over and over again.
Because she's only in grade(more) school, she's probably only expected to learn how to play the notes. But as a pianist, vocalist, past violinist, and past trombonist, I wish that she was learning to perfect her tone. Professional recorders sound beautiful, but a child's school recorder lends itself to, well, sounding like a duck.
However, that is me imposing my standards upon a nearly ten year-old girl. Who am I to say what is music? Who am I to say what sounds nice?
Maybe I'm thinking too much, it's just recorder.(less)
When Tony arrived at Donnie's house, he was sitting on the couch, singing quietly into his phone.
"Honey is for bees silly bear, besides there's jelly beans, everywhere..."
Tony walked over and gesticulated at Donnie to wrap the call up. Donnie glared at him and flipped him off as(more) he kept singing. Tony glared and grabbed a pad of paper.
"Wrap it up, JJ's missing and Arthur's freaking out" he wrote and shoved it in Donnie's face. Donnie glared at him again and grabbed another pen to write back.
"I know. I'm on the phone with JJ right now, bringing him down off a panic attack. Calm down."
Tony blinked at him in shock.
"Why did he call you and not his brother?"
"Because his brother would probably shout at him for phoning him at midnight while drunk off his ass"
Tony nodded, feeling a whole lot like he wanted to smack a whole lot of people over the head for being stupid about their lives.
Instead he wrote "Your singing voice sucks. Where is he?"
Donnie flipped him off and wrote down the name of a local park before getting up to grab his keys.
Tony didn't even get to protest as Donnie led him out to the car.(less)
They went to a karaoke bar for their first official date. They were fine with the way things were, holding hands on the way home and kissing in the rain, but as people say, variety is the spice of life. Plus they were done with exams anyway, so why(more) not? (That, and the look on his sister's face when he told her he had a hot date tonight was priceless. He wish he had taken a picture and uploaded it onto facebook.)
It was a big mistake.
Michael chewed his lip. "Don't take this the wrong way, James..."
OK, so maybe singing 'I Wanna Sex You Up' was a bad idea, even as a joke. "Er, that wasn't supposed to be serious. Sorry."
"What? Oh, no... I thought it was funny." He grinned. "It's just that I think you might be tone deaf." (less)
To be honest, it really was a whirlwind. He was as theatrical as can be, always fond of the over-the-top public declarations of love, the needlessly elaborate grand romantic gestures... hah, there was the one time he went for the classic balcony serenade. He's got a terrible voice, can't(more) carry a tune in a bucket. Sometimes it was exhausting, but it was kind of refreshing, being with someone with such a lust for life. Just being around him was an adventure. Everything was spontaneous and exhilarating when he was around; the colors seems sharper, the sun seemed brighter, the world seemed kinder, just... he made everything better by being there.(less)
It was a terrible sound, moaning and pleading by turns as the young woman restrained in the chair tried to make it through the first of the calming rituals. The Audras in the room with her prompted her every three words or so for the next part of the(more) phrasing.
The Ramus stood just outside the plate glass window, her black robe and veil dissolving her into the shadows. She simply watched the pair in the room recite the primary mantra until the young woman collapsed against the restaints of the chair. Sobbing in relief, she lifted her head and looked at the Audras, who brushed her dark auburn hair out of her face. The Ramus could tell she was smiling behind her veil by the crinkling of the corners of her eyes.
Squaring her shoulders, the Ramus opened the thick wooden door and walked into the room. Summoning the Audras out into the corridor, she pushed her veil aside and looked back through the window, the girl had leaned her head back into the headrest of the chair and was reciting the primary mantra all on her own.
"Will she suit?" the Ramus asked, lifting an eyebrow at her Audras.
"Admirably, though we may have to rush the first stage, she's very powerful." The Audras looked concerned, "she's accomplishing in days what takes others weeks."
"Is she doing it spottily?" the Ramus tugged her hood forward a little more, covering her silver hair.
"No Ramus, her mental pathways are transitioning appropriately, just quickly."
"Is she stable enough that she can speak with me?"
"If you wish it, she's nearly ready to move to the second mantra." (less)
In the end, he had the most terrible voice. It rang in her ears when he was hundreds and thousands of miles away, bouncing off the insides of her skull as if her brain weren't there to cushion or stop it. It whispered words like "us" and "this" and(more) she felt tendrils of him, a ghost that wasn't there wrapping her in whispers. Empty words, a ghost that wasn't there. It shouted words like "fault" and "blame" and "hate" and she felt it with fear, fingers tight around her wrist and hand hard against her shoulder, holding her to the wall, to these words that weighed her down. In the most terrible voice. But she needed it. In a way that scared her. In a way that made her itch and shake and clamp her hands over her ears tight, half so she wouldn't hear a thing and half so that she would keep that voice bouncing, with no way out. She didn't want to forget his voice. No matter how terrible. Because once it was soft. Once she felt it blow words onto her skin and drop them like flowers, gentle and soft and fleeting. He was gentle, and soft, and fleeting. And now she tossed alone with only the ghost of him. She could not remember his fingertips or where they went on her body. Or the scratch of his beard or his tongue on her skin. That time was past. But she still had the whispers. And the shouts. She still had empty words, tendrils, a ghost that she refused to put to rest. And she kept them. Because maybe a terrible memory of a terrible voice was better than the quiet.(less)