Original Work: The Singer
Feb. 22nd, 2005 12:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sarisiaTitle: The Singer
Rating: PG... possibly. No warnings, 'cept maybe alcohol.
She first heard his voice while she was hiding comfortably in a corner table. A book in her hands and rum and coke within reach, she'd been prepared for a normal Wednesday evening. It was always quieter on Wednesday evenings - especially in these small towns where everyone who was known went to church on Wednesdays. Suffice it to say, she preferred to remain relatively anonymous no matter where she was.
Then, he was on the stage.
It wasn't much of a stage, really. Nothing the width of a football field with stage lights or speakers lining the edges. There were no fog machines nor any of those fancy curtains that can go up, down, sideways, and any other which way you pleased. The stage was only about twelve square feet - give or take, she was never any good at measuring distances without a ruler - and only a foot high. If anything could have been construed as a spot light, it would have been because the bulb above him was quite new in comparison to the rest of the building's lights.
She pushed her glasses back up her nose as she eyed him. He was dressed in college clothes. The kind that look decent without having to iron or fold. The kind that are comfortable and functionable. His shoes alone spoke volumes about running across campus because he'd been late to an 8 AM class or about the time he'd walked six miles doing grocery shopping errands for his girlfriend. His hair was long and shaggy (too much homework, too much socializing, and never enough time to get a haircut when the nearest good barber is eleven miles away in the next town).
He brought out his instrument - a guitar. In this town, go figure. He sat it upon one knee as he searched for a mic. The microphone stand was huddled behind him and an arm reached over his shoulder to put a the mic in his face. His cheeks went slightly red with embarrassment. She realized this would be his first time on stage. He adjusted the mic to his liking and introduced himself with a soft grin before backing off.
The singer started off the song softly, with his heels perched on the rungs of the stool and his knees hitched slightly upward to cradle the guitar as he drew music from it. The music began with just the movement of his fingers, plucking notes carefully until the mood was set. Then, the singer melted into an element all his own. His head bent slightly and his body folded over the guitar. Every now and then, he would fling his head back to get his long hair out of his face. He would never lift his hands from this instrument, she thought; he would consider it blasphemy. His body bounced slightly to the beat he created and his foot shook to keep the time. Eyes closed against the room, he pressed his lips against the mic and...
Come all ye lost, dive into moss
In the hope that my sanity covers the cost
To remove, the stain of my love... Paper mache
Oh, come all ye reborn, blow off my horn
I'm driving real hard. This is love. This is porn
God will forgive me, but I... I whip myself scorn
The song began to swell. Before, the singer's voice had easily overpowered the soft notes of his guitar. Behind the singer, another performer stepped forward and bent to her instrument with the bow, eliciting a strong compliment to the Singer's rising tempo. The drummer remained in the shadows, but she could see him tapping softly against his own musical soul mate.
And I wanna hear what you have to say about me
Hear... if you're gonna live without me
I wanna hear... what you want
I remember December
She could hear him singing over the strumming of the guitar. His voice was rough and strong. The deep sounds reverberated through the small room, over the soft hum of conversation and above the clatter of dishes and cups as people ate. Though a waitress had long ago brought her order - an onion blossom, her favorite messy oily late-night snack food - she had ignored it in favor of the singer. Her novel lay forgotten on the table. The glass of rum and coke was at her mouth, resting against her lips as she smiled around the rim.
He threw his head back again. His eyes still shut tightly. A small glimmer on his cheeks startled her. Was he crying? The singer pressed on and his voice cracked on some of the words. The emotion in his voice made her listen more closely. Suddenly, his hands left the guitar to wipe at his eyes and comb through his hair before going back immediately. The two second silence had been deafening. It seems everyone had stopped to listen because of that silence. The singer didn't seem to notice.
And I wanna hear what you have to say about me
Hear... if you're gonna live without me
I wanna hear... what do you want?
What the hell do you want?
He stopped singing and poured himself into making the music. His hands became a blur of motion, changing chords and changing notes. The mic stood forgotten before him as he bent himself over his instrument again. His body seemed to convulse as he forced each strong note from the guitar. He was off the stool and he played even more fiercely before. His partner's notes rose in symphony with his rising passion. Her arm moved constantly as she drew out the notes that fueled the singer's playing before she suddenly ceased and there was only the singer once more, spent and heaving for breath even as he played the final notes.
If she had not felt his frustration throughout the song, she certainly saw it now when the singer fell to his knees and wept. She set her glass down, fully intent upon going to his side to comfort him, until she saw him stand. He grabbed the mic, pulling it to his mouth as he gazed into the room with a ferocity that made her lean into her chair.
Here's to you... darlin'
Here's to you and your lover man
What am I, darlin'? I got years to wait around for you...
Rating: PG... possibly. No warnings, 'cept maybe alcohol.
She first heard his voice while she was hiding comfortably in a corner table. A book in her hands and rum and coke within reach, she'd been prepared for a normal Wednesday evening. It was always quieter on Wednesday evenings - especially in these small towns where everyone who was known went to church on Wednesdays. Suffice it to say, she preferred to remain relatively anonymous no matter where she was.
Then, he was on the stage.
It wasn't much of a stage, really. Nothing the width of a football field with stage lights or speakers lining the edges. There were no fog machines nor any of those fancy curtains that can go up, down, sideways, and any other which way you pleased. The stage was only about twelve square feet - give or take, she was never any good at measuring distances without a ruler - and only a foot high. If anything could have been construed as a spot light, it would have been because the bulb above him was quite new in comparison to the rest of the building's lights.
She pushed her glasses back up her nose as she eyed him. He was dressed in college clothes. The kind that look decent without having to iron or fold. The kind that are comfortable and functionable. His shoes alone spoke volumes about running across campus because he'd been late to an 8 AM class or about the time he'd walked six miles doing grocery shopping errands for his girlfriend. His hair was long and shaggy (too much homework, too much socializing, and never enough time to get a haircut when the nearest good barber is eleven miles away in the next town).
He brought out his instrument - a guitar. In this town, go figure. He sat it upon one knee as he searched for a mic. The microphone stand was huddled behind him and an arm reached over his shoulder to put a the mic in his face. His cheeks went slightly red with embarrassment. She realized this would be his first time on stage. He adjusted the mic to his liking and introduced himself with a soft grin before backing off.
The singer started off the song softly, with his heels perched on the rungs of the stool and his knees hitched slightly upward to cradle the guitar as he drew music from it. The music began with just the movement of his fingers, plucking notes carefully until the mood was set. Then, the singer melted into an element all his own. His head bent slightly and his body folded over the guitar. Every now and then, he would fling his head back to get his long hair out of his face. He would never lift his hands from this instrument, she thought; he would consider it blasphemy. His body bounced slightly to the beat he created and his foot shook to keep the time. Eyes closed against the room, he pressed his lips against the mic and...
Come all ye lost, dive into moss
In the hope that my sanity covers the cost
To remove, the stain of my love... Paper mache
Oh, come all ye reborn, blow off my horn
I'm driving real hard. This is love. This is porn
God will forgive me, but I... I whip myself scorn
The song began to swell. Before, the singer's voice had easily overpowered the soft notes of his guitar. Behind the singer, another performer stepped forward and bent to her instrument with the bow, eliciting a strong compliment to the Singer's rising tempo. The drummer remained in the shadows, but she could see him tapping softly against his own musical soul mate.
And I wanna hear what you have to say about me
Hear... if you're gonna live without me
I wanna hear... what you want
I remember December
She could hear him singing over the strumming of the guitar. His voice was rough and strong. The deep sounds reverberated through the small room, over the soft hum of conversation and above the clatter of dishes and cups as people ate. Though a waitress had long ago brought her order - an onion blossom, her favorite messy oily late-night snack food - she had ignored it in favor of the singer. Her novel lay forgotten on the table. The glass of rum and coke was at her mouth, resting against her lips as she smiled around the rim.
He threw his head back again. His eyes still shut tightly. A small glimmer on his cheeks startled her. Was he crying? The singer pressed on and his voice cracked on some of the words. The emotion in his voice made her listen more closely. Suddenly, his hands left the guitar to wipe at his eyes and comb through his hair before going back immediately. The two second silence had been deafening. It seems everyone had stopped to listen because of that silence. The singer didn't seem to notice.
And I wanna hear what you have to say about me
Hear... if you're gonna live without me
I wanna hear... what do you want?
What the hell do you want?
He stopped singing and poured himself into making the music. His hands became a blur of motion, changing chords and changing notes. The mic stood forgotten before him as he bent himself over his instrument again. His body seemed to convulse as he forced each strong note from the guitar. He was off the stool and he played even more fiercely before. His partner's notes rose in symphony with his rising passion. Her arm moved constantly as she drew out the notes that fueled the singer's playing before she suddenly ceased and there was only the singer once more, spent and heaving for breath even as he played the final notes.
If she had not felt his frustration throughout the song, she certainly saw it now when the singer fell to his knees and wept. She set her glass down, fully intent upon going to his side to comfort him, until she saw him stand. He grabbed the mic, pulling it to his mouth as he gazed into the room with a ferocity that made her lean into her chair.
Here's to you... darlin'
Here's to you and your lover man
What am I, darlin'? I got years to wait around for you...
