Post by Naminé /admin/ on May 24, 2006 17:05:50 GMT -5
This just kinda popped out of my brain, through my hands, and onto the computer screen. it's not much now, but i may build on it.
Utopia
noun
an imagined place or state of things in which everything is perfect.
The words were typed in a plain, faded print, blending in with the thousands of other words on the page. It was right in between utmost and utopians–both words were of little interest to the eyes that scoured over the page, peering through the shadow cast by the slim form of a young man. A hand covered his mouth, chewing on a worn thumbnail. He seemed to be in deep thought for there was a crease on his brow, ruining the line of an aged scar. He then turned his back to the dictionary and the ticking of a typewriter in action filled the room. To the left of the device sat a large stack of paper. The notes of a piano drifted through a few walls.
DING!
An experienced removed the finished page, slapping it onto the stack while the other hand grabbed a fresh piece to roll in. An air of satisfaction emanated from the slim form. A mutter filled the room, drowning out the piano's melody.
"Almost done..."
Nimble fingers picked up a chipped coffee cup, bringing it to chapped lips which were soon parted for a different reason. The man groaned and turned the cup over, proving that yes, the cup was empty. He rose to his feet and strode out of the room. A ray of artificial light was sent sprawling through the moonlit area when he pushed a door open, groaning at the sudden brightness and backing away.
A few moments passed before the man moved. A groan was followed by a satisfying click as he lurched out the door and turned off the blinding light outside of it. The sound of running water filled the quiet space, followed by a clank made by some metal object, then the drumming of fingers on a hard surface.
"Come on...boil..."
Two ears yearned for the sound of a whistling teapot, impatient and eager to be filled with the sound of fingers pushing down on buttons again. The pace of the tapping increased. A long breath was forcefully emitted. Minutes passed. Downstairs, the piano reached a crescendo. The shrill whistle of the teapot finally broke the air. Once again, nimble hands and fingers were put to work: they handled the steaming kettle with utmost care, pouring the contents into the little teacup, setting it down, and grabbing a tea-bag. Soon, they were carrying the steaming little cup towards the room, a delightful look set upon the face attached to the same body as they.
"Back to work with me."
The teacup was sat down with a small clink, taking its place on the faded wood-top of the desk. The teacup's area was well marked by dried rings of moisture and it sat there with a sort of pride that could only be possessed by long-lived objects such as itself. A new melody began.
"Let's see...ah, there I am."
After one last dip of the tea-bag into the water, the man's hands began working again, blasting out well over one hundred words a minute, going through a routine they knew by heart: type, remove, role, drink, type, remove, role, drink. Every now and then the occasional 'spill' would work it's way in the pattern, followed by pick up, clean up, and refill. Note the word occasional. Tonight, however, was not occasional. Tonight was rare. This meant that the most dreadful occurrence of all commenced: a hand faltered, sending the stack of typed papers flying to the ground.
"Holy–what? No..."
The words were followed by a groan, then a clatter as the teacup fell to the floor for its last time. It's contents and exterior were soon splattered upon some of the vellum, drawing another groan from the man. His eyes swept over the mess: shards of glass mixed in with large, rectangular, mushed up bark. Joy. The hands took up a new pace: wipe, sweep, stack, wipe, sweep, stack. A door away, a humorous song was being played. It mocked the man and, when it reached his ears, he let out a long breath and shook his head.
"Why do I get to next door to the mind-reading piano player?"
A piece of paper rested in his hand and his eyes flicked over the number located in its upper left corner: one. A smirk crossed his features, which only slightly showed the first signs of again. A brown hair fell across his eye.
"Well what do you know–page one."
He leaned against the wall behind him, pulling one knee up and resting his arm on it. Then he began to read the story he knew by heart, the sounds of a piano drifting through his ears and becoming the soundtrack to the movie that played in his head.
Utopia
noun
an imagined place or state of things in which everything is perfect.
The words were typed in a plain, faded print, blending in with the thousands of other words on the page. It was right in between utmost and utopians–both words were of little interest to the eyes that scoured over the page, peering through the shadow cast by the slim form of a young man. A hand covered his mouth, chewing on a worn thumbnail. He seemed to be in deep thought for there was a crease on his brow, ruining the line of an aged scar. He then turned his back to the dictionary and the ticking of a typewriter in action filled the room. To the left of the device sat a large stack of paper. The notes of a piano drifted through a few walls.
DING!
An experienced removed the finished page, slapping it onto the stack while the other hand grabbed a fresh piece to roll in. An air of satisfaction emanated from the slim form. A mutter filled the room, drowning out the piano's melody.
"Almost done..."
Nimble fingers picked up a chipped coffee cup, bringing it to chapped lips which were soon parted for a different reason. The man groaned and turned the cup over, proving that yes, the cup was empty. He rose to his feet and strode out of the room. A ray of artificial light was sent sprawling through the moonlit area when he pushed a door open, groaning at the sudden brightness and backing away.
A few moments passed before the man moved. A groan was followed by a satisfying click as he lurched out the door and turned off the blinding light outside of it. The sound of running water filled the quiet space, followed by a clank made by some metal object, then the drumming of fingers on a hard surface.
"Come on...boil..."
Two ears yearned for the sound of a whistling teapot, impatient and eager to be filled with the sound of fingers pushing down on buttons again. The pace of the tapping increased. A long breath was forcefully emitted. Minutes passed. Downstairs, the piano reached a crescendo. The shrill whistle of the teapot finally broke the air. Once again, nimble hands and fingers were put to work: they handled the steaming kettle with utmost care, pouring the contents into the little teacup, setting it down, and grabbing a tea-bag. Soon, they were carrying the steaming little cup towards the room, a delightful look set upon the face attached to the same body as they.
"Back to work with me."
The teacup was sat down with a small clink, taking its place on the faded wood-top of the desk. The teacup's area was well marked by dried rings of moisture and it sat there with a sort of pride that could only be possessed by long-lived objects such as itself. A new melody began.
"Let's see...ah, there I am."
After one last dip of the tea-bag into the water, the man's hands began working again, blasting out well over one hundred words a minute, going through a routine they knew by heart: type, remove, role, drink, type, remove, role, drink. Every now and then the occasional 'spill' would work it's way in the pattern, followed by pick up, clean up, and refill. Note the word occasional. Tonight, however, was not occasional. Tonight was rare. This meant that the most dreadful occurrence of all commenced: a hand faltered, sending the stack of typed papers flying to the ground.
"Holy–what? No..."
The words were followed by a groan, then a clatter as the teacup fell to the floor for its last time. It's contents and exterior were soon splattered upon some of the vellum, drawing another groan from the man. His eyes swept over the mess: shards of glass mixed in with large, rectangular, mushed up bark. Joy. The hands took up a new pace: wipe, sweep, stack, wipe, sweep, stack. A door away, a humorous song was being played. It mocked the man and, when it reached his ears, he let out a long breath and shook his head.
"Why do I get to next door to the mind-reading piano player?"
A piece of paper rested in his hand and his eyes flicked over the number located in its upper left corner: one. A smirk crossed his features, which only slightly showed the first signs of again. A brown hair fell across his eye.
"Well what do you know–page one."
He leaned against the wall behind him, pulling one knee up and resting his arm on it. Then he began to read the story he knew by heart, the sounds of a piano drifting through his ears and becoming the soundtrack to the movie that played in his head.