[Sonata in C Major zoewhore

[Wonder]

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The keyboard at school was far too untuned for her liking. In particular, the major G was at least a couple of tones too low - if she had wanted to play an E, well then she would have. Though there was no place to complain to. It was miracle enough that a piano was even in such a place as a Capitol school. Creativity was really condoned, unless it lay in the field of utilities and mindless production. There stood the oxymoron of the century. Mindless creativity. It was there that most kids conformed into the conveyor belt way of life. Both literally and metaphorically, sitting down on the base of the transporter and letting it sift them through school, training, work, life. Trapped among the system, a grave like tempo, lento. It was the life of a District member, one that ultimately would be her destiny.

Solenne; circumstances were grave, solemn - yet still marching on at a funeral like place. The keys had become chipped with age, the brown its of wood that had been an initial part of the piano were now exposed, the bones open, torn away from the muscle. Had the piano been a real human being, Cecelia would be worried for it's life; however, as many would agree, a piano was solely an instrument used at the disposal that anyone needed. Often, this piano was used to teach rhythm to the younger kids, unaware of the beats that the regular world produced. Unbeknownst to the three four timing of the waltz, or the four four timing that the world produced naturally in any song that they could find: a singer in the shower, steps along a side walk, tapping on a school desk when bored. Luckily, the case that once would cover the keys had been torn off last year, each time she would play the rotting instrument, she would worry for the safety of her fingertips as they slid along.

Sure, it wasn't the best place to practice in the world, but it wasn't the worst either. There were many other places that could be much more dangerous. Perhaps they wouldn't cause any physical damage, but there was an arpeggio, a wide variety of possibilities as to what home could provide in terms of damage. Sterling had enforced a very strict practice schedule as to make sure no one was playing two instruments at once. Probably smart, considering that Raisa and her usually competed against each other to see who could play louder. Though there was no way she could ever really time down to an instant when muse possessed her to run her calloused hands over mystical puppet strings. There was an another world out there, she was sure, that wished to hear music and it was at that time they would call for her to enlighten them as to what she had to offer.

Play vigorously, explode with a crescendo of sound that burst through every doorway, let the neighbours know the story of the slight ballerina who tip toed along corridors trying to find her home. A story with each and every piece, let it control and become real. Ever since she was a little girl she had tried to figure this out, how to create with simply music. Composing had never really been her talent, though she could play anything that was dropped in front of her. It was always Jett who had been the talented composer.

Jett. Her nimble fingers plucked against the instrument, hammers pounding across nails. Sonata in C Major. An old one, that was for sure. Learned back when she was only ten, it seemed like so long ago.

"Why do you like this one so much, Jett? It's just so simple."

"That's the point." He smiled.

"You're so lazy! How are you supposed to get better if you won't even try the harder stuff." She plopped up the sheet music for Lullaby in Black in White only for him to shove it away with one sweep.

"How are you supposed to get better if you never learned to appreciate the simple stuff."

E-D-C-C-G-F-E-D-F-C-D-C-C.

It was supposed to be easy, that was the point. The old piano clogged along with the music, sometimes half-heartedly hitting notes, but listening to the melody none the less, eating it as it pleased. It was this kind of thing that it enjoyed, the simplicity of a beautiful text. Something once written by the greats so that a new start could be found.

B-C-D-C-B-A-G-F-E-D-C-B-A-G-F#-G-A-B-G-B-A

It was six eighth in timing, she continued to play.

Yet she couldn't find the enjoyment that Jett had promised.

What was wrong with hard, surely it was more interesting than simplicity?[/blockquote][/font]

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[✨ zozo.]

"Piss off" are the first words that leave your mouth today. Although muttered under quiet breaths to be heard by nobody else but yourself, they still leave with a satisfying taste. You take flight, leaving your pathetic, murdering excuse of a father trailing in the dust. Threats of dragging you down from the sky do not phase you, nor do promises of leaving flowers at her grave. (You've been going by yourself for the past 4 years - why should this year be any different?)

Your thoughts are bruises. Any chance they get to press against your conscience hurts and it bleeds into your brain. You take a leap across your roof and ascend from the world, a staircase of chimney-tops, bricks and corrugated iron that leads you away from your Father and all of his terrors that lie underneath calloused hands, fingers that once did the work of the devil and stole away your future. There aren't a lot of things you run away from with light feet and nimble posture, darting in and out of sight from the ones down below, but your Father is most certainly one of them. Bitterness clouds any attempts he makes to warm to you - and maybe you let it blind you. So grounded in the decision never to forgive him for what he did all those years ago it's a wonder you can lift off from the ground so easily.

People swarm through the streets and back-alleys below you. Business peaks back up after reapings (the only knowledge your father has ever given you has been how to gain, whatever the cost) but you take caution regardless. There is no hustle for product that keeps eyes drawn to the ground and fixes wandering attention to anything other than you. In a blink you have stolen an apple and thrown a coin into the till of a stall, leaving behind no trace of your existence except the rattling of metal on metal, already in the sky once more. (A little boy might tug at his mother's hand and say "Look! I saw a boy fly!", but they'll tut at his words because they'd never believe him. You know that first hand.)

And so you dance, up in your paper-plane world of air and chimney smoke. Like fingertips against piano keys you touch down and bounce off architecture in split-seconds, flying in-between blinks of eyelids. Swiftly you dart over gardens and risk falling through the gaps where the buildings break apart (never touching, should they risk forming bonds so strong it would hurt too much to rip themselves open again), but you never fall. Not ever.

But birds do, however, have to land from time-to-time. You learnt long ago that if you spent too long with your head in the clouds you may never come back down. The air above may be a safe-haven, but people start questioning you when the earth begins to yearn for your feet to play against it's grassy keys. Not that you'd dare to fly away just yet - there's a tombstone sitting in the graveyard that holds you down, pulling you back again and again. (You don't mind, though. A heavy heart can't make you weightless no matter how many times you try to let the wind carry you away.)

It's the familiar sound of music filtering through the open morning air that leads you back down to the ground again. (If you were ever to fall towards the ground you'd hope there would be music to cushion the fatal blow.) Quietly you climb back down from your peaceful world and seek out the source of the piano's song, pausing in your motion to decipher protesting childhood arguments next door. Almost drowning out the music altogether, two small voices battle for victory. Threats and reasoning their weapons, until one claims their championship and rides off on the bike. The other slumps to the ground in defeat and catches sight of you in the process, eyes widening in shock at the boy on the rooftop.

A press of your finger to lips halts their almost-cries. "Shhh!" you order, motioning to the window before raising a hand to cup your ear. "Listen!"

And he does. A smile blooms upon his face, and in the hypnotic symphonies that have captured your attention his concentration of you withers away. As you throw the the apple in your pocket towards him it lights up in delight as the fruit lands in his hands, but when he looks up again you're gone. The master of distraction, the illusionist, a magic man on the rooftops - that boy will tell the story of you for years to come.

And you'll listen to the piano player's song.

"Not bad," you begin, hanging from the drain upside-down with clinging white knuckles. Your head pokes through the window as the figure finishes and mischief alights in your eyes. "Bit jumpy in parts - but you're pretty good, you know."

timothy feldon

[Wonder]

CECILIA m o r r i s e y
∞

[presto]

She nearly slams the cover on her fingertips jumping at the boy from the window.

Watching her hands carefully, she thinks of what time would do if she were to ever break her hands and doesn't like the thought. Black clouds emanate overhead, there is a constant storm brewing as she wraps her hands delicately in silk like bandages - she is living within a refinery crafter blocks of soap into bars with crippled hands, mumbling song lyrics to maybe an old tune that she once used to know - but not anymore, just one of two lines here and there, enough to get by mixing up her singing between words and mumbles, there are no harmonies. A crippled back, loped over an conveyer belt, maybe it would be two or three years before she could never stand again, but there would always be a wheelchair disposable somewhere, or some fine young man to carry her around. Her hands wouldn't be what they used to, long and elegant, they were withered and frail, broken - carving soap wasn't easy with such hands, it took twice the effort just to get one bar done, and they would only pay her for how many bars of soap that she got that day and -

Exasperated, she puffs in air like a chain smoker, heaving into nothingness. Clinging, grasping on to the sides of the piano bench, wobbling and breaking, this was now her lifeline to keep her grounded. There would soon be nail marks along the side, along with the other random bouts of graffiti, "JENNY <3 ALFIE." Normally she would be grossed out by the wads of hum stuck to the underside, and yet as she gripped into them she didn't care. Her lungs felt as if tar clung to them, bringing them down slowly and swiftly, dark and unavailable - she didn't take to surprises very easily, which was why she often ventured to the music hall during lunch, nobody ever bothered to come back here, she could shuffle along staccato footsteps, elongated legato strides, she could tap dance to sultry rhythms uninterrupted by the world and yet swinging from the windowsill was a boy with gritty eyes and a crooked smile who urged her to play on - or did he? She couldn't hear him over the sound of her rapid firing heart rate, she tried to time it to her metronome - one eighteen, one twenty-five - just what was the tempo of her heart beat?

The rickety keyboard seemed to laugh at her as she chipped her nails further into the seat, "just play" they chanted, what was the worst that could happen? But she knew all too well from the fantasies in her head that one swift mood on such a faulty stupid piano that her life and career could be ruined, not that there was really any path for a pianist in district nine to pursue, but the thought was always nice - it was just that the school didn't take any time to invest in any sort of creativity at all and she was just so darn flustered with it all. And for God's sake, if piano was going to be her one outlet that her parents let her indulge in without worrying about her grades or staying inside the house with a roof overhead, then God forbid she would take the opportunity and play the damn instrument that she God damned loved and so be it!

She finally caught her breathe somehow, the marathon it was running was long and extreme, covered many bays before it decided to return to the finish line. This was al fine and dandy of course, if it wasn't for the fact that Cecelia was sure that if it hadn't come back soon she would have died from some sort of heart attack. Now she wasn't a doctor - yet, but the likelihood of that was almost as likely as the fact that every damn key on the board in front of her was out of tune and not useable to maintain any sort of beautiful flow or beat despite how hard she tried, reaching hard into her arpeggios and getting nothing but mismatched sounds - her scales were worse.

Staring at the boy who had bothered to disturb her, watch her - and criticize her, she couldn't bear to stand that he would even bother to come her way to say she was pretty good. "I don't know if you go here or not, but this thing -" Cecelia pointed dramatically, perhaps it was the scare, but everything right now seemed anger and anxiety driven with no in between for reaction, "but this thing is about on tune as the screams of someone dying. So I'm better than pretty good, I'd like to think." Sliding off the bench, she moved slightly towards the window, enough to get a good look at the looming figure. "Normal people use a door, you know. Not rooftops and windows, that will get you arrested."

[/presto]