InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Tra, la, la nothing"

Miksa Silas ♦ Bagheera (miksa) wrote in bellumletale,
@ 2010-06-06 20:56:00

Entry tags:

bagheera, moriarty

[The windows to 105 are thrown wide, and the only thing visible within is the occasional flicker of candlelight. The sound of the cello, positioned near the open window as it is, carries up the building and down the alley. The fire escape, however, is up and blocked. No visitors. Just sound.]

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dierache
2010-06-07 01:18 am UTC (link)

Jonathan, on the twelfth floor, was much too high up to hear the music from his apartment. So, instead, he made his way into the alley around midnight, waiting to see if Miksa would follow through on her promise.

She didn't disappoint. The song was hopeful, as she'd said it would be, an island of beauty in the cool, gritty night. He leaned against the brick and listened - he could see an open window from his vantage point, but not the cello, nor its player. The sound carried through the alley like it was an amphitheater designed for just such a purpose, and when the song was finished, so did the sound of clapping as it went back down the alley and around the corner, and a single quiet, sincere, "Bravo."

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thimbledarling
2010-06-08 06:17 am UTC (link)

Tegan was still awake in her bedroom when the cello playing began. She'd been reading a book, but let it rest against the quilt as she listened, glad that it was her wall that adjoined the apartment next door, and not her brothers'. She closed her eyes and turned her head a bit toward the window she had opened a few inches, able to hear the sound resonating in the alley.

The song lasted a few minutes, and she found herself smiling. After taking a breath, waiting a moment to see if the song was truly over, she reached back behind her head and knocked as softly as she could on the wall. It was hardly a protest, just an acknowledgment of a neighbor on the other side of the wall.

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sneakingaround
2010-06-08 09:11 pm UTC (link)

There were three different test tubes, all receiving different treatments. Archer kept track of them by color coordination and a piece of paper in his notebook, divided into three columns, tracking each tube's life journey. There was a timer beside the gel electrophoresis machine, his watch, and the trustworthy built-in timer in the centrifuge. Adjusting his glasses, he scratched a few notes on the page, gaze darting from timer to timer anxiously. There was nothing that required more precision than laboratory science.

As he was about to add a pre-measured amount of enzyme to the second tube, a sound drifted into his apartment seemingly as an onslaught from all sides. He paused, eyes widening as the music seeped into him. Suddenly, his glasses felt oppressive, and he removed them, looking down at his shoes in thought. There was something enchanting about music. Something enthralling and wonderful. He would occasionally listen to it while working, but he had sold his CD player in order to pay for another set of enzymes and he didn't have the funds to purchase another at the moment.

The song went on, rich and deep, until it trailed off into the quiet evening. Taking a deep breath, Archer replaced his glasses, pressing his fingertips gently against his temple as his gaze strayed to his watch. Tube two was overdue for its treatment. He was late. Barking a curse, he rushed to make up for lost time.

He hated these new neighbors. He hated them so very much.

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