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| F A L S E GODS & TENDERNESS; Active | Mature | Closed | |
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| Topic Started: Jan 3 2013, 02:09 PM (306 Views) | |
| Gipity | Jan 3 2013, 02:09 PM Post #1 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>"I've got an itch, <br>You've got an emptiness, <br>I couldn't fill, <br>False gods and tenderness." <br><br>I lull into the microphone, eyes closing for a moment as I take a moment to soak in the buzzing energy in the room. The song before this had been more volcanic and velocious, and now for my last number, I take it down to something lustful and intimate, allowing the soul in my voice to vocalize the sound of ache. I can nearly hear the heaved breath and thumping hearts of the crowd over my band's music, as all eyes are on me, including the reluctant eyes of my target. <br><br>"Into your will, <br>Pray on the falling, <br>Straps from your shoulders, <br>How do I hold you?" <br><br>As my beryl eyes snap open, mouth nearly caressing the microphone, my hands continue to stroke the steel strings of my prized guitar like a lover would to his queen. I search these crowds without a hitch in my voice, locating my prey once more. There she stands, the loathing for me seeping off of her, the old adoration of me hidden beneath the layers of distaste I've created, but it's not gone completely, which I read from the involuntary sidelong glances. She's not a prime victim, but she is still easily within the reaches of my claws; An easy catch for a stygian angel such as myself. <br><br>"Make me a monster, <br>Make me a beast, <br>Prey on my weakness, <br>Become my disease." <br><br>To the humans in this bar, I am simply Keir Tempest, a local musician with Irish roots who may just have what it takes to make it big, the sort of act that the clubs and bars nearly ask for, the days of begging for a chance over. To all other beings, to the monsters that linger in the shadows, I have no last name, or no body that's truly mine. I am a daemon, or demon as it is more commonly known in these modern times. My title is Keir, the remnants of my oldest existence, Gaelic for dark one, as incredibly fitting as that is, but a last name is either forgotten, or never existed in the first place. I have no inkling of whether I existed as a human before, or if this has always been it for me. I've found I don't care anymore. <br><br>I've been lovesick and empty, <br>Cold and I'm trembling <br>Still holding out <br>For my fairytale ending." <br><br>Demons, or my class of demons, roam the Earth in human form, living out seemingly normal lives, using them as disguises while we take care of certain grim businesses. I've stopped questioning, no more whys spilling from my lips when I'm assigned with my next soul to sacrifice. I am usually given young woman to pray upon, my sense of self allowing that to be easy for me. The body I chose is a choice specimen to the females around me, and if there ever was a mortal version of myself, he would have had a jar of broken hearts in his collection of achievements. The musical tendencies only assist it all, my lascivious passion capable of bringing them to their knees before me, in a figurative sense. <br><br>"Nightmare <br>Falling as the bottom <br>Reaches up for me <br>Wake up on the ground." <br><br>I accumulated this vessel a handful of years ago, when he was a ripe age of nineteen. Demons are pure entities, with no real bodies of their own on this plane, so we have to retrieve our own when we arrive here, how long they last depending on how well we avoid marring them and whether or not we're found out. We do age physically, but it's at a slower and more graceful fashion. This boy, named Conor O'Ryan, was a wreck of a human. I had studied him, finding he had all the essentials, including the lack of any family, and a dying soul. To add to my benefit, he had the look I sought, the one I felt would be the truest to myself if I were to be of real flesh. He was of my perceived homeland, and the cherry on top was that he could sing. He had been a musician, leading a grunge band titled the Death Maggots, but his misdirections had led him into things such as whiskey and heroin. Two of his bandmates died from overdose, one left to clean himself up, and poor Conor's life consisted of stumbling through the streets of Dublin, selling himself for his next hit. My last moments with him consisted of him in the corner of an alleyway, muscles betraying him as his lips were nearly the color of his eyes, pupils of said eyes the size of pins as he fought to breathe, and as his soul left his body, I entered it. Those a tad crueler will be happy to take an already occupied body, but I prefer it to be quiet in mine, as I don't take enough pleasure in the screaming to share. <br><br>"Reject <br>Every lesson anybody has to say <br>Cause I won't be saved now." <br><br>My so called average life has consisted of me traveling to New York to work my way up as a musician, whilst at the same time doing the work I am asked with skill and a roguish smile. Requests for souls had been silent for me for awhile, until just recently, when they required me to perform a full sacrifice on a girl named Elise. There are several sorts of sacrifice, though the two most common are the one night stand and the full sacrifice. The one night stand consists of the girl putting enough of her trust in me to give her body to me, to go as far as speak her words of trust to me, before I drink the soul from her vessel. A fellow darkness will consume the body for their own well being, or I must dispose of it. A full sacrifice on the other hand, is far more complex, and not one required too often, or what you don't see as often in so many years of existence. I must get them to trust me in an entirely different manner. It has to be a complete and unconditional trust, right on the cusp of love, because she has to want to die for me. Whether I convince her the sacrifice is for both of our goods, lying to say she'll have me on the other side, or I make it an accident, a mask so that they know no better. This one takes some time. <br><br>"I've got an itch <br>You've got an emptiness <br>I couldn't fill <br>False gods and tenderness." <br><br>A shuddering breath leaves me as I pull back from the microphone and lay down my last notes upon the ebony body of my instrument, eyes torn away from my victim. Elise is a waitress at Atrum, a bar and club I frequently play in downtown New York City. She also happens to work at a radio station that plays the sort of music that escapes my soul. Months ago, she had been a sizable fan of mine, asking me to do an interview for her radio station. I had been distracted by another job, and had no real interest in helping out the fair girl with her little interview. I ended up being a savage ass to her, turning her down far harder than she ever expected, and I only regret it now that I have to get her to be on my best side. She has a hard time standing me anymore, including my music. She used to quite kindly play my material on the station, until that debacle occurred, and now I haven't heard a lick of it. She's only enduring it now since this is her job, and I only chose to play Atrum tonight so that I could get to her. <br><br>Sweat beads at my forehead as the ending vibrations of my guitar strings pass through the crowd, and the applause soon follows, a pearly white grin pulling at my lush lips as my hands pump up, black leather bracelets falling down against my forearms. I step up to the mic as my hands drop to rest on my guitar, my thick accent ringing through as I go on to thank everyone for coming and enjoying themselves, assuring them I'll be back soon before I leave the stage, and my band begins to pack up. I retrieve a water from the bar as people begin to leave, some coming over to speak with me beforehand, but I attempt to move through most of them, attempting to get to where I spot Elise across the way. The majority won't mind or will forget, as they are drunk off their arses, so I get across the room with only a few slurred mutters behind me. <br><br>I put on my most rakish grin as I come up to her wiping off a table, adjusting the sleeves of my jacket. "Good evening, angel." My lips shift into a sort of a smirk as I call her my enemy, but here on Earth, it's a compliment. "I'm sure you remember little ol' me, and I'm sure you remember we didn't get off to a great start." My eyes soften to something that's trying to be innocent, a boyish twinkle included to help sell it, as I circle the table, calloused fingers sliding across the shining surface. "Bad night, that one, but I'd like to take up that offer of yours." I stop circling like a hawk once I'm right beside her, looking down the side of her face, taking a second to admire the plump lips I hadn't noticed before. "That offer is still valid, right lass?" I bring my voice down into a low and alluring tone as sea kissed blues bare into her with a sort of intensity that could make even the most confident of girls suddenly feel vulnerable. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Jan 4 2013, 02:56 AM Post #2 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> When I was in high school, we had to analyze some poem whose title escapes me now. All I really remember is that there was this great line that was something like--I have measured out my life with coffee spoons (or was it tea spoons?). And I just thought that was great. That was something that should be in a song. And it got me thinking--how would I measure my own life, when my number came up? <br><br>By now, I think it'd have to be measured by the number of scratched vinyls stored in the attic of my aunt and uncle's house. I can never bring myself to throw them away once we've had a history, so there they sit, collecting dust. You might be thinking…vinyls. Really. But I don't think you've lived until you've held a record in your hands, felt the grooves, then placed it home on its turntable. Heard that old crackle, the fizz, that hiss. <br><br>Not that I'm so stubborn that I don't have an .mp3 player, though (but it's not an iPod. Why waste the money?). I can't drag my record player around with me, and it's hard for me to be without music for long. Whenever I'm out and about, I'm crowned in a thick set of headphones. Uncle Joey always advises against it, saying I'll never meet people by coming off so unapproachable, but I've never really felt that need to be surrounded by people. It's not my goal to meet everyone and hear everyone's story. I've got my godparents and a few friends. I'm good. But it's not good enough for everyone else, because they always think it's due to some deep set depression after my parents died in a car crash. <br><br>I guess sometimes I'd just rather spend time with guitar strings and mellow voices than people. <br><br>And it's better to keep those separate. Once you start associating music with the musicians and who they are and what they're like, things get messy. I don't want to think about how Lennon was a wife-beater when I listen to "Crippled Inside." I can push that away. I just can't push it away when I've actually met the person, face to face. And thankfully, this has only happened once, since I usually prefer to keep my relationships strictly between me and the vinyl or .mp3, but there was that one incident where I was trying to get on my boss's good side, and maybe even a promotion. <br><br>When I'm not waitressing like every other dreaming drudge, I'm working at Phonography, the sort-of well-known FM radio station with the name aching to be fashionably inappropriate. Luckily and unluckily for me, the music director is a lazy, drunken hack who's usually to smashed to pick out the mixes, so the job falls to me, the assistant. That's the best part of my week, I think, though nobody knows I'm the one behind it all. Nobody except the artist I no longer play, the one who's unfortunately working at the restaurant tonight at the same time as my shift, Keir Tempest. <br><br>I used to play his music all the time on the station. His voice is…like liquid warmth, traveling through a microphone through the air to buzz in your ear like he's right there. He doesn't overdo it. He sings, that's all, and that's everything. It's just pure art. And I wish I could detach that from the fact that he's actually a bastard, but I can't. I can see it so clearly--me, walking up to him after a gig, telling him that I work for Phonography and that I've actually been the one playing his tunes, and asking if he'd just come on air for a short interview. And him, laughing. You couldn't have been more of a jerk if you tried. I don't know what I had been expecting. For all Aunt Ruby's insistence that I'm too grown up for my age, I can't stop hoping that people will be like their music. That it takes some heart to affect others that way, but I keep on getting proved wrong, and Keir wasn't any different. <br><br>So that was the end of his music on my station as far as I was concerned, and the end of whatever admiration I had of him before. Harsh, maybe, but it's not like it would matter to him anyway. I don't think I'm hurting his feelings by trying to forget I even heard of him. I'd work at a different restaurant if they pay here wasn't so great. I try to think of other things while he croons on, talking over it as I ask if people need more water and "how's everything," and I manage to make it through to the end of his act. <br><br>Just a little longer before closing time, and then it'll be the bus, home, and a good long soak in the tub with the Paper Kites. I lift up the napkin holder as I make streaky wet circles with the rag across the surface, and that's when I hear his voice. Angel--what? Probably making another conquest. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen him making a girl sweat. I roll my eyes and turn back to see the victim, only to discover that he's actually talking to me. What the hell? The surprise isn't coming from the fact that I'm the type of girl who would fall back in a faint if some famous guy talked to her. I mean, they're people too. It's coming from the fact that he's bothering to talk to me at all, after all this time. Well, whatever game he's playing, I don't want any part in it. Yeah, he's hot, and he's got talent, I'll give him that. But call me high maintenance--I prefer guys who aren't assholes. <br><br>I manage to hold back a lot of what I would've said, such as me being amused that he even remembers that teeny incident in his fabulous life to begin with, and that the offer expired at the first "ha" in his chortle that day. "'Fraid not," I finally murmur with a sigh that drips with sarcastic regret as I push past him with the hand holding the dirty damp rag. I approach the next table, dropping the rag there while I collect my tip--two bucks, what a bleeding heart--and then continue to clean up. <br><br>"What do you want, Tempest?" I ask despite myself, without turning my head back to him. It's clear he has some favor or something to ask of me because really, why else would he be talking to me? The great big shot couldn't even spare a fifteen minute spot on the station and now he's hitting on me? Come on. That's unrealistic. At first I was thinking Keir might just want someone to warm his bed for the night or whatever, but there are easier targets to try in this place. I'm sure he would've made the chick at the bar (the one wearing a tube-top as a dress)'s underwear sopping wet, if she was wearing any. Atrum isn't the meeting place for Christian Singles Only dot com, after all. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Jan 4 2013, 11:25 AM Post #3 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>Mm, the sarcasm burns my Hell-submerged soul. I didn't believe this was going to be as easy as the others. I'll admit, not all of them fall into my arms with the bat of my eyes or a tender word. I give the women of the Earth more credit than that. I always get the job done though. I do what I need to. Unfortunately, it doesn't help that I was so entirely unappealing the last time we collided. I attempt to remember back to that night, to a young girl of non-interest coming up to me after the show. I was knelt down on the stage, packing up my guitar. The night before had been unsuccessful for me, a one night stand gone a bit wrong when I assumed the target would be an easy piece of game to conquer. I had another go at it tonight, and if I ruined it this time, chances are I would lose her and she'd go to somebody else. No one takes my work. <br><br>Needless to say, I was agitated, face determined to get a pretty little soul tonight no matter what, slapping down the clips of my guitar case as a girl with a huge blue gaze comes up to me all starry eyed and hoping, asking to interview me for her radio station. I listened to Phonography, because they were a station that played the good stuff, the work with soul, the pieces that made you feel. I only listened more when I heard my songs on there, being shared with the world, and if it had been another night, I would have been flattered to hear that this was the person behind all of that, but I didn't care who she was or what she did that evening. She was a silly human girl who I could not care less about, just a lass in my way of the work I was put on this Earth for. She had some pluck, that girl, and I laughed at her. I let out a deep chortle and shook my head at her, telling her something along the lines of, "Bugger off, lassie. I've got better things to do." I jumped off the stage after that, and walked off. It didn't effect me any, until now. How much simpler this would be if I had said yes that night, and been more of a civilized gentleman. <br><br>I don't suppose I've ever been the latter, but I could have made a better attempt at it. <br><br>She creates a distance between us far faster than anyone has in awhile, and I only hesitate at the one table before I'm gradually making my way over to the next. "I want to make it up to you, Lis." Shortening a name, giving a girl a nickname, right off puts me off as a little less than a stranger and a lot more as a possible figure of familiarity. "I'll admit it." I toss my hands out to the sides. "I was a major arse to you. It was a bad, bad day." I can feel the rigid annoyance about to emerge from those oceanic orbs of hers as I drop my hands, so I don't stop there. "Come on now. You gotta know how that is. Ever snap at a person without meaning to? We make mistakes." I make it up to her side, but realize with this target, she may prefer more space, so I take a step back for breathing room. "It's those awful demons inside of us." I half grin, in amusement of myself and to hike up the charm. <br><br>I'm not getting a yes just yet, so I push forward, refreshed to have a challenge again. To think she's going to have to be a full sacrifice. No problem. In due time, she won't be able to imagine life without me. "Look, I don't mean to sound like a conceited bastard, but I'm a rising act, and one you shouldn't ignore. Imagine where that interview will get you. Me instincts tell me it'd be more than hiding behind a playlist." I raise my brows, knowing that she knows I'm right. "That's what you were hoping for, wasn't it? It's why you're so furious, or at least, one of the reasons." I chuckle in an awkward way, before my face falls into something softer, and I lean my elbow on the table, leaning a bit in front of her. "I'm sorry, Lis. I booked the gig here today so that I could see you. Me fingers were crossed you'd be here." I lift a hand, my fingers indeed crossed. "I'm not joking around here, lass." I flash her a bright smile. "Besides, you couldn't help yourself tonight. I saw you looking. A small part of you still enjoys me music." <br><br>I abruptly smack the table before I rest both of my forearms across it while she moves to the other side. I produce enough of a shock so that sanguine hits her cheeks, her bewildered gaze finding my face, and I lock our eyes together, letting her stare into my storm colored sincerity. "Lets do this, Lis." A broad cordial grin lights up my face as my voice registers just about a whisper, laugh lines decorating around my eyes. "For your own good and mine." </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Jan 4 2013, 01:25 PM Post #4 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;">At the sound of my nickname, I forget my irritation for a split second and turn back. No one has called me Lis since the day my parents died ten years ago, when I was twelve. My uncle calls me a whole buffet of random names ranging from "E" to things that don't even have anything to do with my name, but he never calls me Lis, knowing how it would make me feel. But Keir doesn't know anything about it, so it's not like I could just get angry at him for it, because I'm not about to explain myself to him. His abrupt movement with his hands is enough to snap me out of it though, so after I blink the strange lachrymose look from my eyes, I return to cleaning the table, involuntarily listening to him but not giving him much else. I only glance up every now and then with measured exasperation. <br><br> Because this is what people do. They apologize, but only after they realize they need you after all. I have to give him credit for making a more compelling argument than most, though, what with him appealing to my humanity with his whole haven't you ever made a mistake kind of approach. But I'm not that eager to help him out, even if doing so would help myself. <br><br> I can't help but snort at the whole demons thing. The only demon in me was the idiot who associated good music with good personality. But honestly? I stopped the whole religion thing after my parents died. There aren't any angels watching over us. That's easier to believe than the idea that they would just let people like my mom and dad go like that. Them, and the little brother or sister I was going to have. So Keir could stop with calling me angel and talking about demons, because I don't care about fairytales anymore. At least his music doesn't lie. <br><br> It looks like my cold shoulder's pushed him in another direction though, because Keir cuts right to the chase, saying it all comes down to me being too stubborn to take this golden opportunity in front of me. I raise an eyebrow at the "conceited bastard" thing because at least he's not completely blind (I was going with blind but not deaf for the most part). But although there's only an expression of upright intentions and apology in his eyes, I only feel my frown deepening. Because why--why couldn't he have done this before? When I was right there, ready for it? Asking for it? It's…too late, now. I don't want it anymore, and I don't even know what to believe. Maybe he came here for me, maybe he saw me and took a chance. It doesn't matter. He should've kept his fingers crossed for me making a fool of myself twice. <br><br> That bastard manages to get me by bringing up the fact that yeah, okay, maybe I glanced his way once or twice when he was playing. Can you really expect me not to when his damn set is so long and there's nothing else going on in this stupid restaurant? But ugh, I can feel that red flush creeping up my neck, my ridiculous tendency to imitate a cherry tomato whenever the slightest embarrassing thing happens to me. I press my lips together, but Keir's sudden bang on the table is a lucky break that interrupts the whole direction the (one-sided) conversation was starting to take, thank God (atheists can still say that, okay). <br><br> He stares right at me, giving me a line that would have the effect of a hot summer day on soft butter on any other girl but this one. And he's all smiling at me so brightly, like he's just a boy who plopped down on the seat next to me on the bus and struck up a conversation. It would have been easier if he was. Maybe he would've been more easy to forgive. Now Keir's just pressing a thumb into my ego's bruise. I wonder if this is how desperate I looked when I asked him first. I shudder to think. <br><br> This has gone on long enough. I'm tired of it now and I screw around any longer, I'm going to miss the bus. So here comes the finish. I move around the table, moving towards him for once, take his arm and smile up at him disarmingly, like he's my winsome boyfriend and we're on a heart-warming date at the zoo or something. <br><br> "Sorry, but…"--I have so many things I could have said. But they all could be summed up in one short phrase. "I have better things to do." My smile immediately melts into a look much more blasé, and without further ado, I shake out the rag, grimy water dotting the floor and his shoes alike, and walk off to vanish behind the Employees Only door. <br><br>After changing out of my uniform, I shove on my headphones and turn up the music, shuffling off to the bus stop quicker than usual and feeling more detached from the world than ever, the lyrics pounding in my ears like a heartbeat. <br><br>Hey, nice to meet you <br>Did I get your name? <br>Recognize it spelled out in the clouds, <br>And I remember it every time that it rains. <br>So cheers for the good times, <br>And cheers for making a name.</div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Jan 4 2013, 03:03 PM Post #5 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I should have been able to taste her lack of consent the moment the last word left my lips, yet I'm faintly shocked when I see it crashing down in front of me with that smile of hers. That smile that tries to fool me, attempts to give me hope before she throws me down to the ground and drags me through the broken glass. Her words are harsh, repeating my own words from that fucked first meeting. Despite her fading smile. I keep my own, though it transforms into a knowing simper, because this isn't over, but she doesn't know that. "I'll be taking that as apology accepted!" I shout as she turns her back on me after getting the sluggish water on my boots. I watch her until she is beyond the door, and then I return to my bandmates, who josh with me over not getting the girl for once. I will get the girl. I always get the girl. It's just going to take some invasive maneuvering she won't expect. <br><br>The next morning, I visit the high rise holding the Phonography offices, along with a majority of other New York radio stations, and head to the right floor. It only takes a smile and a wink with a mix of some sweet accented words to get the secretary to arrange a meeting with the program director, and within fifteen minutes, I'm granted an audience. "Mr. Lyle, it's nice to meet you. I'm Keir Tempest. I'm here for the interview." I announce after shaking firm hands with him, a friendly smile slipped onto my lips. Naturally, the man is confused, and shocked. He says how no interview was scheduled, or even mentioned, but gets out an apology for not asking me before because an interview would be swell for a growing talent like me. He goes on to ask who on Earth arranged a meeting, and I am happy to say. "Elise Hannon, sir. Great girl, really. Last night she asked me to come down and me instincts said not to pass it up." <br><br>I grin as I see Elise coming towards me like a hurricane, berserk and wondering why I'm here, in her territory, when she obviously told me no. I speak up as she gets closer, allowing her to hear loud and clear, "She asked me before, but you know how it is for us musicians. We're all over the place and nowhere at all." I laugh, allowing it to hit my eyes and I can nearly hear the faint sigh from Trish the secretary. "She came back yesterday and she sold me, hook, line, and sinker." The silly stubborn girls begins to protest, and before I have her ruining anything, I speak again, "You see, sweets, Lis dahlin', we made our date here for Tuesday but you know, today me drummer came down with the flu and rehearsal was cancelled, so here I am, unfashionably early. Apologies for barging in, sir." <br><br>"No, no! I recall Elise here mentioning acquiring you a few weeks ago but I wasn't informed she had tried again." He chuckles, despite being agitated that he was out of the loop. "It's quite alright. I believe we do have an opening for you, Mr. Tempest, if you just give us a bit of time. I'm hoping desperately Elise prepared for this." He says through tight teeth before he hesitates. "I don't know if Elise told you, but we won't be able to pay you much. We're running on a bit of a lower budget these days." He adds with a wince, but my assuring smile seems to ease him soon enough. <br><br>"Don't you worry, sir. I've got it handled for free. You just better hope Lis here makes me look good." I wink over at her, but then I'm caught off guard as Mr. Lyle laughs and tells me that Elise won't be having anything to do with that, only doing the more behind the scenes work. Instead, it will be Janelle, the female jock who purrs a little too much into the microphone and might have the least sense of musical taste of the station. I don't know argue with it though, merely giving a smile and a thank you, though the disappointment is present in my eyes. I watch as Mr . Lyle whispers to Elise, telling her to get me ready for the start of Janelle's program, and that's when we are basically left alone, Mr. Lyle scolding poor Trish to get back to work before I gather he's off to go inform Janelle. <br><br>"I hope you don't mind the intrusion. I'm only trying to write me wrongs here." I tell her with a coy smile as I turn towards her. "Now, how about we get me settled in?" </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Jan 5 2013, 01:45 AM Post #6 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> I didn't mention the incident to my aunt and uncle that night, determined to forget the whole thing and hoping that'll be that. The next day's my day at the studio, which always puts me in a better mood. I head down there looking forward to hearing the mix I had set up for the day. But first, I have to speak to Mr. Lyle about this new artist that I found in the subway station named Rita. She was selling some CD's and I bought one, always interested in hearing something new, and I think it's actually pretty soothing, her voice sonorous repose. A pinch of Suzanne Vega. <br><br>Lyle's strict about playing "no-namers" as he calls them, though, so I don't know if I'll be able to do it. I didn't tell her I was going to ask in case he says no, not wanting to give the poor girl any false hopes. There's enough of those in New York. But when I start towards his office, Trish tells me he's already talking with someone. And that's when I hear an infuriatingly familiar voice-like-a-damn-Irish-millpond speaking. God damn it. <br><br>I'm just in time to hear him mention my name, saying I'm the one who told him to come down there. "Wait a se-" I suddenly start, barging in there without thinking, not wanting to play any role in whatever performance he's giving, but Keir speaks over me, saying I'm the one behind it all and calling me "sweets" and "darling" and giving some shit excuse about his drummer. And Lyle the lummox eats up every word, panting like a sweaty fanboy to have the dazzling Keir Tempest on his radio station. I can only listen along as he sputters, saying he's hoped I prepared for this. Naturally I give him a quick smile (that quickly turns into what the fuck when he turns his back and Keir looks my way). <br><br>But it's all out of my hands now, the kid with a job little better than running errands, so all I can do is try not to get my ass fired and fried over this blazing grill of a hot mess Keir's just made for me. What is he even thinking? Is he even thinking at all!? <br><br>Keir winks at me--oh, he thought I was going to be on air for this? Hah. Yeah right--but he doesn't complain when he hears it'll be Janelle. Then, as it always goes, I'm told to just do my chores so I can get a kind word and a pat on the head and stay at the bottom level of the musical food chain. I start adjusting the mic for Keir when he speaks up, trying to make himself come off as some saint or another. <br><br>"Right some wrongs?" I repeat, and I have to laugh a little at that one as I plug in the headphones. "You can't honestly believe I'm going to thank you for tardily accepting a withdrawn invitation to promote yourself," I point out as I hand him the guest headset, though granted, I'm in somewhat less icy mood than yesterday. What can I say--I have to give him credit for that much vanity. It's almost charming. Almost. <br><br>"Go easy on Janelle," I advise as I finish wiring him in. "She's an even bigger fan that I was," I quirk my lips to the side in a half-smile before shutting the door behind me. <br><br>The first thing Lyle wanted me to do was print out the questions I had typed when I initially thought Keir was going to guest star at our humble base. He always asks me to the dirty work, knowing Janelle's loathe to lift a finger. And the second I sit down at the computer, Janelle walks through the door right on cue, her eyes visually groping Keir. "Oooh, who's the hottie?" she remarks, looking like a tiger ready to pounce, but everybody knows her true form is something more like a dog in the heat. She and Keir would make a good match. <br><br>"Keir Tempest," I respond without much bravado as I search through my archive. The computers are crap here, old Windows that always freeze an--Found it. I open the document up on Word and start the printer. <br><br>"Who?" Janelle asks, frowning, the name unfamiliar to her. <br><br>"You don't know? This Time…Break….Something Inside…" I start to mouth off some songs, swiveling a a bit to the side to look at her, admittedly a little shocked despite not being an admirer any longer. "Any of those ring a bell?" But then I remember--this isn't really an insult to Keir. This is Janelle. The chick who first heard of The Smiths when they were briefly mentioned in that movie where Zooey Deschanel plays some girl called Summer and all the boys watching her in the audience call her a bitch. She's a DJ because she's the grand-daughter of a huge investor in Phonography, she's got a smooth voice, and the inability to button her jam-packed shirts up even half-way. <br><br>"Not really." <br><br>"O-kay," I shrug it off, accepting it. It's to be expected. The printer's finished and I take the questions, paper still warm as I hand them over to her. "Well then, here you go." She looks over it, seeing that they're the questions, and a small chuckle rolls out. <br><br> "Oh, it's okay, I don't need these," she insists, handing them back as she rolls her shoulders. "I'm pretty good at winging it." <br><br>For a second I consider protesting, but then I think ahead, envision Janelle continuing to hold that never-ending faith in herself and her imaginary incompetence when it comes to failure, and decide I'll save us both some time and drop it. "All right, then. Good luck," I say, smiling on the surface as I crumple the paper in my hand. She's never believed there was much knowledge needed when it comes to music. <br><br>"Thanks," Janelle grins, perking up--both emotionally and physically as she readjusts her bra--and heads into the studio empty-handed. I suppress a sigh and get the other equipment set up, since I'm the one who has to help monitor the sound and etcetera during the session. I park behind the glass, ready for what will indubitably be an awkward and entertaining dialogue.</div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Jan 6 2013, 02:04 AM Post #7 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I can see a slight softness to Elise that wasn't there last night, so even though she isn't a hundred percent ready to take me on, I've weakened her defenses a little. I grin slightly to myself as she walks away, giving her a look over before she closes the door. I soon see Janelle on the other side of the glass, talking to Elise. I immediately roll my eyes at the blonde and big breasted subject that's going to be interviewing me. Elise probably believes I'm into that, which I can't blame her, seeing as she has seen the slew of girls I've picked up in the past, but those type were never my choices. I've always preferred girls that have an innocent and earthy look to them, like a girl like Elise, who I managed to overlook before. Getting distracted by random mortal girls when I have work to do isn't much of an option, but I still wish I had seen it before, with that hair like warm espresso, eyes that make a bluejay's feathers jealous, skin like an angel's wings, and lips like kissing rose petals. I find my eyes focused intently on her while she's having her exchange with Janelle, casually glancing away and looking over the equipment when their eyes find me periodically. <br><br>I avert my gaze from Elise for awhile once Janelle moves to come into the booth with me. She introduces herself, purposely a bit bouncy to make her assets do their thing, but my eyes stay on her face after one natural glance downward because I'm a fucking demon for Satan's sake. She ends up being delightfully surprised by my accent when I speak, and that's when I realize Elise had been kidding when she said Janelle was a big fan. Wonderful. Wait, didn't Elise hand her a piece of paper? Where is it now? I was staring a bit too intensely at Elise to realize what had happened between them. Janelle sits her mini skirt clad ass down in her seat, giving a go ahead to Elise and the others on the other side of the class, and I groan quietly to myself. "For fuck's sake." I murmur under my breath just as the intro for the show starts, and I suck in a deep breath before I turn towards Janelle, putting on a pleasant but unenthused smile. <br><br>"Goooood morning everyone! This is Janelle on Pornography's Wake Up Call, ready to start your day with grrrreat music, contests to win some free tickets to some of your favorite acts around town, and interviews with the hottest -" She winks over at me, "- Commodities -" That's a big word for her, I'm sure. "- On the market today. Today, I have a fresh face that I'm sure you folks have heard of; Keir Tempest!" She's good at faking her enthusiasm here, like she actually knows who I am. "Welcome to the show, Keir!" <br><br>I put a hand to my headphones to hear a little better as I lean in towards the mic, "I'm delighted to be here, Nelly. You don't mind if I call you that, do ya, lass?" I give a fake grin as she gives a peppy 'of course not' and I continue. "I was honored to be invited." I turn my eyes towards Elise as sincerity slips over my lips, but it quickly disappears once I'm facing Janelle again. <br><br>She goes on to make a bit of small talk, which I go along with in a nice enough manner, before she moves on to some actual questions. A smirk grows, wondering how this is going to go. Lets see how well she can wing it before I get too pissed off. <br><br>"So, Keir, from green ol' Ireland! What made you choose the New York music scene over L.A.'s?" She shimmies her shoulders at me all perky like, so confident in herself. I fight off a pained smile before I clear my throat and adjust myself in my seat, going on to answer. <br><br>"New York City always seemed like the right choice. It's grittier here. It's got a darkness, seeping through everything. I don't see it in a romantic way." I smirk, shaking my head, knowing all too well how awful New York City could be. After all, it had me. "It's disgusting sometimes, with it's rats the size of dogs and grime and wrongs being executed everywhere you look, but it's got this light trying to leak through the cracks, and it's in every artist who tries to make his or her way here. It's real. It's sincere. It masks the bad the best it can, and it usually succeeds. It's about the art here, and that's what's important. If I cared about making it huge, I would have gone to the City of Angels." It doesn't sound like too appealing of a city to a demon, now does it? "But I could sing my entire life and as long as one person understands my music, and feels it, and lets it shed a little light into his or her darkness, I'll feel I've succeeded." I'm not trying to just sound impressive and so against fame and the like for Elise's sake, but each word is soaked in honesty. Being famous and being heard by millions would be a treasure, but it's about connecting with that one person who needs it and feeds off it, the way I feed off souls. <br><br>Maybe that's why it aches a little now to know I stopped Elise from being a supposedly huge fan of mine. <br><br>Janelle's response is dead in the eyes, having no actual interest in my words, and making a face or two at my morose descriptions of things. As far as I can tell, the extent of this girls knowledge of music is a sappy song or two on those damn Twilight soundtracks and the Top 40, which also reveals she has no true interest in music. "That's a very interesting response, Keir!" She lets out a sort of broken laugh, "Next question! When did you start getting into music?" I'm staring at her now, and I can feel myself breaking her a bit, as she fails terribly already on pretending she knows how to interview me, a musician she has no idea about. She probably didn't even know my name until about ten minutes ago, if just for the simple fact she's been pronouncing it like Kur and not Kee-er, like Keiran. This question is pretty generic, even more so than the first, and I fight back a sigh before I begin to answer, letting out a strained chortle as I reach up to touch my chin. <br><br>"I suppose it started when I was just a wee lad, which feels like centuries ago." I simper, until I notice that Janelle is not really paying attention to me, instead raping me with her eyes, up and down and up and down, gaze lingering at my crotch a couple times while she bites her bottom lip, probably imagining us fucking in the janitor's closet or later at her place, all night long. She doesn't care about me, or what I have to say, or even the music I play. This is suppose to be Elise's interview. I have to bring in the girl who adored me weeks ago, who's hopes I crushed and maimed. I have to keep my sanity and hear real questions from a unfortunately formerly true fan who maybe gives a bit of a shit, from someone who actually feels music, and knows how to say my fucking name. "You know, lets just quit it right here, Janelle." No point in a cutesy nickname anymore. "You don't care about me music, or me. This is not what I came in for." I complain honestly, my jaw clenching at one side, as her eyes grow a bit wide with surprise. <br><br>"I-I do care about your music. I'm a huge fan, Keir-." <br><br>"It's not Kur, like a Sumerian mountain, sweetheart, it's Keir." I huff out, shaking my head. "And you are not a big fan of me music. If you are, prove it. What's the first line of me song Something Inside?" It's the song I tend to play the most out of the rest of them, and if she loves me, she'll know it right off the top of her head. <br><br>"Oh, uh." She's sweating, in places other than between her legs, and I can nearly see her brain melting as she thinks hard, as if hoping a song she's never heard of will just come to her, and she suddenly looks at Elise and the others through the glass with panic in her eyes, and I take it from there. <br><br>"That's what I thought." I smirk and reach over, patting her on the top of the arm. "You tried, but I agreed to be interviewed by the lass who asked me to be here in the first place." I turn towards the window, and I gesture to Elise, making sure they get the idea that I want her on the mic, doing the real work, and to get this moron out of here. "Lets get one Elise Hannon in here, shall we?" I say for the sake of the listeners so they know what's going on, and to get Elise's name out there without hesitation. Janelle tries to protest, but the directors on the other side want things to get back on track and smooth again, and by the look on my face, only one thing will cure that. They gesture for Janelle to come out, to her shock and horror, huffing as she disconnects herself and they shove Elise in. I put my hands behind my head and grin to myself, because now the fun begins. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Jan 6 2013, 04:21 PM Post #8 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> I can't help but give a little self-satisfied smirk and laugh at Keir's expression when he meets Janelle, most likely quickly discovering she isn't his number one fan. Yup. That was the industry these days for you. It would've been better to take calls from listeners and ask him their questions, but Janelle, though usually harmless, doesn't typically enjoy sharing voice-time during Wake Up Call when it's not needed. Once she gives me her usual thumbs-up for sound check and the clock strikes, I put them live and start up the cheesy intro. <br><br> Her naivete's swiftly becoming a little too apparent, unfortunately, the second she says Keir's name. Oh, come on, Janelle, I said it like four seconds ago! Christ. Fuck. Well, hopefully whoever's listening has either never heard of Keir or has a slight hearing impediment. For the voice of the show, she sure makes us sound like a pen of chumps. But Keir doesn't point it out and goes along nicely enough, giving her a wee endearing nickname. If I roll my eyes anymore, they're going to get stuck like that. <br><br> But right after I finish, I catch Keir actually looking at me. Like, thanks for bringing me here. And it looks genuine, even after me lying about Janelle. Why is he being so nice to me? Ugh, whatever. It's manners, something that people in the spotlight are demanded to have or else risk being roasted with bad exposure, nothing more. I don't want to put myself out there again. <br><br> The beginning conversation is painless enough, with Janelle making duck soup of the job like always. She ignores his music when it comes to questions, keeping it to the awkward-first date identifying kind. But props to Keir for actually giving them a go anyway, turning them into something interesting enough. Instead of the usually rhapsody people give New York about being a melting pot of culture, Keir talks about the ugly side more than people would want to hear. He talks about the struggle, which isn't exactly what you'd want to hear on the way to work when you turn on the radio, but it's the truth. People are smothered over here by their dreams, more and more of them finding out that what they signed up for is a life of standing behind shut doors and groveling. <br><br> I know how he feels. It's crazy, but…I do, I mean, I've never wanted to make it big at this station. I don't want to be a DJ, and I don't want to run the company. Honestly, I just want to share music with people. And then you might ask why I'm always bitching about my job, and then I'd just say it's because I don't want it to just be this one sided thing. I want people to know who I am because I want them to tell me what they think of the music and to give me suggestions. Give a little, get a little, and thrive on the music between us. So maybe I get Keir more than I want to when he talks about that one person, and I have to turn away before he realizes how much I'm staring at him. <br><br> But all Janelle says is that that's "very interesting" before quickly moving on to asking about his origins. Keir begins (seriously I can't picture him as a kid at all), but all of a sudden, turns the whole thing around, snapping at Janelle and calling her out for being a poser. Which, while true, is not what any of us were planning on. She persists, but he corners her, demanding she give the first few lines of Something Inside. <br><br> Shit. Shit. Janelle, having either never heard of the song or unaware of its name, looks over helplessly at the rest of us, and I attempt trying to mouth it to her through the glass, wondering if I should just scribble it on a paper and slap it on the window. But before I can even if that's just stupid or not, Keir takes over, shooting her down. Well, fuck. He just does what he wants, doesn't he? I dig two fingers into my temple, already imagining the beating I'm going to get from Lyle when I have to mop up this mess I caused by inviting this hellion on the show. So much for good press, for both him and the station. <br><br> Suddenly, Keir brings up my name, asking me to come on down like this is some crazy game show. "What?" I actually sputter, having never been live on the radio vvvand before I know it, the directors are grabbing me-- "HEY!"--and pulling me up from the chair and pushing me in as Janelle exits in an embarrassed rage. Poor baby's probably going to go clubbing tonight to drown this blow to her self-esteem. <br><br> So without any warning in today's horoscope, I find myself in the heart of the studio, with Keir Tempest smearing a smug grin across his face. I turn back to look at the others, and they violently gesture at me to get on with it, probably not enjoying the publicity these moments of silence are going to earn the station. "What the hell are you doing?!" I whisper fiercely through gritted teeth as I walk over to the cushy leather chair and sit down, rolling closer to the mic and wiring myself in, finally resigning because it's not like I have a choice if I want to keep my job. I'm the one who brought the apparently hotheaded musician in in the first place. <br><br> I shoot him a none too pleased look before shaking my head and choosing a route, figuring that answering the last unsolved question could be a not completely idiotic way to start. I take a breath away from the mic and then stare up at the shock mount (not really craving to look at Keir while I do this) as I begin, mentally reminding myself not to sing the words, though it still comes out in something of a melody. "When the one thing you're looking for is nowhere to be found, and you back stepping all of your moves trying to figure out…you wanna reach out, you wanna give in, your head's wrapped around what's around the next bend." Oh, crap, that was way more than the first line. But I never feel right just saying one line, a fragment. It's only complete when you finish the stanza. <br><br> I can hear my forced, alien laughter through the headphones. "Uh, those were the beginning lines in the first verse of the song, for those listening who didn't know before," I explain to anyone who's still listening to this piece of crap station. It's Lyle's good luck this is the morning show. <br><br> "So, speaking of "reaching out"…" I begin, rubbing the heel of my palm at the edge of my jaw as I go back to the questions I typed up a while back, but thought up long ago. I eventually glance up at Keir, bright ass smile on my face so it can shine through my voice, but my eyes are actually saying I am going to get you for this, mark me. "I've noticed that's sort of a recurring theme in your music, Keir." Can't really call him Tempest on air. "Reaching out, being on the sidelines…being on the other side of an open door. These black sheep motifs keep on coming back to you. Is it intentional?" Sometimes people aren't aware of the feelings that surface."…are these…musical symptoms from personal experience, being so far from home and in a city like New York? <br><br> That last sentence produced some laughter from behind the glass, to my surprise--oh, they thought I was joking. Right, some people don't see New York as a lonely place. These are people that can blend in anywhere, who have that type of personality that screams of loving to laugh and drink and watch basketball games and all of that. People who are always up to date always have dates, but you never really know if that guy buying a birthday cake has people to share it with. <br><br> I give a little "ah-huh" laugh to play it off as I smile back at them before returning to the question, though this time I don't look directly at Keir. I look in front of me, pulling away from anything that's happened between the two of us people, and I talk to the music instead. "Or is this a way of building a connection between you and a specific audience, like the unsung neglected?" The ones who weren't invited to parties, who were always on the outside looking in.</div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Jan 8 2013, 12:53 AM Post #9 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I do an attempt of my best not to laugh as Elise comes in, heart probably beating a million miles a blink and slender neck and cheeks burning pink. She's never done this before, but there's a first time for everything, isn't there? I just ripped the bandage off. Things usually work out in my favor, so after this if she's any good, which I believe she will be, she will be asked to be a bit more on the forefront of the station, instead of being just the coffee girl who dreams of a bit more. I merely wink at her when she asks what I'm doing, unable to speak due to the microphone, and I watch with a cheeky grin as she falls into the seat and gets herself all wired in. She's all ready for her big break so to speak, and I'm ready to be interviewed properly. <br><br>What she does first sincerely startles me, because instead of awkwardly addressing what just happened and going on to the next question, she begins to speak the entire first verse of my song as she keeps her gaze far from me, answering what I had asked Janelle, and she does it flawlessly. Her voice isn't bad either, even if she is trying not to truly sing. It's light and melodic, and it murmurs the words of my bleeding heart without a hitch, knowing my music like it's the air she breathes. My eyes fall upon her neck, watching her throat quiver as she recites the words, and I feel my heart elevate, pumping rushes of blood through this stolen body of mine. I find it, sultry, in a way, watching her and hearing her do this stirring me up a bit. I roll my lips inward, swallowing before I adjust myself in my seat when her eyes finally fall upon me. Lets see the questions that were truly meant for me. <br><br>She goes on to ask about the theming of my music, getting into detail about it, because she knows. She's listened, countless times, and paid attention to what's there. It's not just words and melodies. It's feelings, put into sound, emotions expressed through the wind that blows against our ears. I open my mouth to speak at an end of one of her sentences, but I stop myself, my heart feeling a faint throbbing as my eyes encounter a foreign gloss upon them. I have only ever known what's it like to gain fans, but never to lose them, specially one who listened to the music and heard me playing my heart strings. I broke an illusion of a soulful lonely person by being an arrogant arse to her, and I hadn't even realized what I was doing. How dare I feel remorse over this? How dare she make me truly regret a moment of my life? It's an entirely new feeling. <br><br>She goes on to add a second question, giving two options as to what are the origins of my music. Am I expressing a lonely soul, or attempting to appeal to those lost? My answer comes to me swiftly, and I smile, but it's a different sort of smile than before. It's one that's touched, impressed, and pleased by what's occurred in the past two minutes. "It's a bit of both." I lift my lips, ivory poking out between my pink dusted lips, "Don't you think it has to be?" I chuckle a bit, light eyes rolling up towards the fluorescents above me for a moment before they fall back to her. "How could I ever truly connect with those sitting and watching outside the circle if me own life experiences don't fuel the subject?" I shake my head. "I do want to let them know they aren't alone. We always feel a little more apart of life when we find that song that speaks to our souls, lets us know there is someone else out there who feels the way you do." I find myself staring into her eyes, even though she insists on looking passed me. Look at me, Lis. I command in my mind, but I am powerless with her. That's how she's been making me feel; Vulnerable, the way I make the women around me feel, and it's a feeling that both frustrates me and infatuates me to no foreseeable end. <br><br>"I do miss me home, sometimes, when the world between the skyscrapers is misty and I long for the smell of the grass and dew, specially on me hands." My smile radiates as I think to memories so old, they nearly have a sepia tone to them in my mind. [b"New York is glorious, but it's immense, loud, and industrial. It's cold."[/b] My eyes drift down towards the floor as a melancholy air washes over me. "I've never seen a city where there's so many people per square foot, and so little people who even take first glances at each other. It's nearly impossible not to feel like you're drowning with no one there to see you, let alone save you." My eyes flicker back up to her face, full lips parted just slightly until I speak again. "But it's never been about where I was. I've always felt far apart from the world, from the rest of humanity. It's been my entire life." She'll never know the extent of it. She'll never understand how I've lost so much, and how I don't even truly know myself how much I've lost. She'll never get how I'm an alien in her world, a man who shall live forever stealing the lives of others for someone else, darkness in a human shell, who tries to drink in the scattered light and feel present in the world instead of merely being a distant entity doing his cruel duties. "People may think it wrong, think I could never be lonely with lasses on me arms all the time and the like, but there's never any bridge. It's all scattered concrete between me and everyone else. I lose people but I never really have them in the first place." I wonder who I had before. Did I ever court a wife? Did I have children? A daughter, or a son? For some reason a son always seemed more right, but that's a truth I may never find out. Besides, the past is distracting. I can only live in the now. "It makes for some good music. I can tell you that, dahlin'." I smile before it slowly melts into a grin, allowing a chortle to escape, pushing back the somber tone, "Next question?" <br><br>The rest of the interview goes on somewhat like that. Elise is able to ask about my music specifically, and actually respond in an affected way, where I can tell she understands what I'm saying. I know she feels a sense of empathy, and I feed off of that as the interview rolls on. We end up actually taking a handful of questions from listeners, one acting the maggot by calling out the messy start from earlier, but quite a few praise Elise, saying they'd like to hear more from her, and a couple, who didn't know who I was, ask the next time I'm going to be playing and where, which leads me to believe I will be gaining a few new fans. Finally, it's all over, and they move to a commercial break after Elise gives the sound off, and we unwire, allowing Janelle to come back in to finish the rest of the program, the look on her face as sour as a bushel of lemons, and I have to fight not to laugh too audibly as me and Elise walk out of the room. <br><br>I can see her music directors gesturing her over, looks unreadable for me, and I wait for Elise to say something to me, specifically thank me, but there's nothing. I find her turning away from me, not a word, just glances, and I don't hesitate to take a hold of her arm. "Lis." I wait for her to turn towards me before I let her go, and I pull out a business card, which on the front has my website and other information on it, before I flip it over and show the blank side filled with dark red ink, showcasing an address and time. "Meet me here if it suits you. You won't regret it, sweets. I promise you." I put my hands in a prayer position and tilt them towards her with a smile before I lean forward, lips to her ear. "Thank you for understanding." I whisper, slipping back to a position where our noses are nearly touching, eyes inches apart, and then I turn, heading towards the directors to thank them and other such pleasantries before I leave the high rise, having hopefully broken the top of her shell. <br><br>On the card is an address to a place a few blocks from Atrum, leading to an alleyway. A couple steps into that alleyway, I will be waiting for her, leading against the rusted railing of a short stairwell heading downstairs, below the ground and under the building. It leads to a door, a closed sign hanging in front of it with a black chain, looking entirely uninviting, but I am willing to bet she'll trust me, just this once. One time is the gateway to forever. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Jan 22 2013, 10:36 PM Post #10 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;" Keir seems pretty damn pleased with himself when I walk in, the asshole probably loving how he just carelessly flicked me into the situation. I don't know how he looks after I start picking up Janelle's mess, however, since I make a point of not looking at him when I (unfortunately) half-sing his lyrics. For that second, I forget about him and all the nitty-gritty details that have happened in our meeting. For that second, I feel that warmth I once had for his music returning, because it's been so, so long since his music last past my lips. I've heard it involuntarily when he goes to Atrum, but I try to drown it out with thought or not think at all. Singing--having it come from your own soul, and feeling the words and meaning in your own mouth--is even more intimate. <br><br>After moving past that mistake, I go on to ask on my questions, needing no paper to know what thoughts used to swim though my mind in rhythm to his voice. And then Keir answers--saying it's both home sickness and a song for those who never really speak up. And for a split moment, I look back at him again, his words like a flint to spark that stupid old hero-worship buried so deep within me. Thankfully, Keir doesn't see, his eyes on the lights, and I turn away just in time, jabbing a fingernail into the side of my leg under the table to remind myself. <br><br>I understand. I know what he's talking about…I mean, that's one of the main reasons why I loved his music so much to begin with. The lure of shared pain and loneliness rose to grasp my ankle and I willingly let it drag me into the abyss of guitar string echos and the voice of someone I felt I knew, and loved. I want to tell him yes, I felt it. I could close my eyes and see you standing there in the empty city of nothing but grey people, grey walls. But you weren't just standing, you were waiting, offering a friend when there was no one else. <br><br>But I kept my mouth closed, as if he wasn't talking to me, but everyone else who was listening. My hand slides to the side of my neck as I tuck my chin over the edge of my hand, keeping my gaze downcast, listening against my will as my job depends on it and my curiosity overwhelms me. <br><br>Keir continues to answer the question, talking about his home. I've never been outside of the country, let alone New York City. The only place I've ever even really been on vacation is Aunt Ruby and Uncle Joey's cabin in the mountains, and I've been going there since my parents were alive. So I can understand a little of that longing for an escape from the claustrophobia of the Big Apple, but…I can't even imagine what it'd be like to be completely free, in a new place, with new culture, new language…new music. <br><br>When Keir says cold, my first thought goes to the temperature, not a far shoot from the visions of the snowy cabin in my mind, but I quickly discover he means something else. The people. That's something we could agree on. Everyone in New York is so involved with themselves and their own lives for a second that it's hard for them to take a second and realize the world's so much bigger than their own problems, that there's a story in every stranger, and sometimes it's a story that screaming for recognition and help. <br><br>"I've always felt far apart from the world, from the rest of humanity. It's been my entire life." <br><br>The words are like the snap of a rubber-band against my wrist, almost prompting me to look over at him again. What? Why? Why would you feel that way? You, who I've seen sandwiched between blondes? You, who has always seemed so close and far at the same time? Feeling apart from the whole of humanity? Was a burden like that even bearable? <br><br>As if he hears my thoughts--no, he's answering the public, not me--Keir says that none of that is true, that he's never…felt anything, I guess, with anyone else. And then I realize that maybe, all those times when I've pictured him standing in that empty city, he was lonely too. He wanted a friend, too. All this time, his music wasn't just about being there for other people, but finding someone to be there for him. Someone who wouldn't leave him, someone he could finally have. <br><br>The emotion in that truth and melancholy of it all creeps up on me, threatening for me to fall all over again, like an angel on a leash with his name engraved in the leather. But ironically, Keir saves me from it himself when he shatters it before I can break, laughing it off and saying how it makes for good music, as if it's nothing to him, which tells me to treat it the same way. I can't really, because I can't just turn emotions on and off like that, but for my sake, and the radio's, I ignore it, comment on it well enough but keeping away from digging deep again. I do my job, basically, putting any personal feelings behind bars. <br><br>Later on, we let the listeners call in and ask their own questions, one guy immediately jumping on us for the whole thing with Janelle, but Keir steps in and makes him seem like an idiot, preserving the good ol' Phonography name. To my surprise, some even ask about me, which leaves me bright red as I thank them and say that everything's in the hands of the studio, and I have no control over whether I'll ever show up on Wake Up Call again. Many wax lyrical about Keir too, but that's expected, and I'm now certain that I'll have to put him back on the radio again, an idea that would first piss me off, but now I…I just don't know what to feel. When it's all over and I thank him for coming and Janelle resumes her throne, I'm in a hurry to get out. The directors start calling me over, and inwardly cringing at possibly getting fired over the whole mishap. But I don't get far before Keir grabs my arm. I turn back to look at him, afraid of what he'll say--afraid of what I'll say. <br><br>He gives me a business card with an address, asking me to meet him there before promising it'll be worth it…and then thanking me for understanding, something which genuinely shocks me because I suddenly feel as if he had been listening to my thoughts throughout the interview, and the blush that had finally drained from my face when Janelle assumed her position threatens to return. I don't say anything, not sure what'll come out if I open my mouth, and he exits, leaving me to the directors. <br><br>"Look, I'm really sorry about that, I didn't expect him to--" I begin apologizing from the start, not wanting them to think I had conspired with Keir to do that or anything. <br><br>"Well done, sweetheart!" <br><br>"Hey, you think you could maybe do another cameo on the show?" <br><br>"Eileen, that was fantastic!" <br><br>"Actually it's Elis--" <br><br>"That was the first good interview our station has had since--" <br><br>And so on, making me feel flattered and relieved and confused--but worst of all--ungrateful. I glance back where I saw Keir last, but he's long gone by now. The directors ask me to do a few more tests later on by answering calls…mostly people's questions about the music. Who's playing, what genre, etc. It wouldn't be played on the station, all stuff behind the scenes, but if people liked me, then they'd talk more about what could be done about that. <br><br>This is the sort of opportunity I've been waiting for. This is it. I've wanted to do this all along, never mind what'll happen if things actually turn out well. Just the chance to talk music with people, and even be paid for it is a dream thrust into reality. So why…why am I not paying closer attention? Why is my mind still in some fuzzy cloud, some thick fog, ever since the interview? I'm hearing, but not listening. <br><br>The impromptu meeting ends fast enough and I'm sent on my way again to resume my usual chores, and I find myself continuing the rest of my day sort of absentmindedly, like I'm moving through a slow haze. <br><br>At the end of the day, I go home and greet my aunt and uncle. A friend listening to the station had called them and told them to turn it on when I had been called on air and they were thrilled, remembering how much I listened to Keir before (and not realizing that I had stopped a while back, since I never told them about what happened). I nod and smile and act excited about the things to come, but it's all wrapping in a dull sensation, and all I can feel is something hammering inside my chest. It only gets worse as time passes, and I realize that…damn it, I'm just going to have to go tonight. I tell Aunt Ruby and Uncle Joey, and they're surprised to hear about Keir. The ever insightful and harshly-scrutinizing Aunt Ruby actually asks if he forced me into some sort of deal, but I immediately put an end to those assumptions, and Uncle Joey nods along, saying he sounded like "nice boy" on the radio. And because I didn't want to spend forever actually arguing about that, I agreed, and set off to what could either be an unexpectedly awesome night or another giant mistake. But if I was being honest, I'd have to say I don't really have much at stake to begin with. <br><br>I don't bother changing out of the outfit he saw me in from this morning, never one to get excited about dressing up for someone. The last time I can actually remember clothes making me feel something close to happy is years ago, when Aunt Ruby gave me the leather jacket that once belonged to my mom, but I've never actually wore it. It just hangs in my wardrobe, a silent memento. I wonder what she and Dad would think now, me going out somewhere with a pretty famous musician? <br><br>All I can hope is that this isn't going to be the plot line of some sappy Young Adult novel, and he's going to take the normal girl out to some nice place and give her a slice of his fancy world. There's a time when I would have never considered that possibility, because, based off his music, he's not the type. But now I have no clue. If you asked me before this morning, I would've said it's definitely feasible…but now, after that interview…I guess you could say I don't really know what to make of him. So I head over to the address with my pockets empty of expectations. <br><br>When I arrive at the meeting place, I find any notion of this being your typical story of the prince and the peasant is immediately crushed under the heel of Keir's black scuffed boots. He's standing in front of what looks to be an abandoned…something, but a very dilapidated, where crack-dealers-hang-out sort of something. A surprised, completely bewildered smile pushes through the usual "No Entry" doors of my features. <br><br>"…just uh, FYI--- " I start as I shuffle forward, holding up a hand before Keir starts to greet me. I lean over to look at the rickety sign again before continuing. "--my uncle is on red alert tonight." I stop in front of him, crossing my arms. "So if anything happens, there won't be a rock on this earth you can hide under," I warn, dropping my chin with a poker-face. But the silence afterwards, mixed with the whole fact that I'm even here to begin with makes a pale pink hue appear out of nowhere in the cold, with a small self-conscious smile tagging along. My body just loves to betray me. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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