InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "How do you prove we exist?"

Steven Shiancoe (thegodofrock) wrote in paxletalelogs,
@ 2011-01-16 20:28:00

Entry tags:

dionysus, hermes

Who: Steven and Philip
Where: Steven's Apartment
When: Sunday, January 16, evening
What: Just another meeting
Status: Incomplete

Steven's fingers moved over his guitar strings, urging a tune from the worn instrument. It was an acoustic guitar, old but well-maintained. Steven never brought it on tour with him; it was his favorite, a gift from his grandfather shortly before cancer took him. Of all the people in his life, it was his grandfather who had encouraged him, who had never looked at him like a waste of space or disapproved of his personal habits. Steven used this guitar -- and this guitar only -- to write his music.

The song he was currently strumming was one from his third album. In its entirety, the song was more than just an acoustic guitar; it was a sentimental piece, accompanied by the soulful melodies of violins. In his mind, he could hear those violins, the same as he had when he had first begun work on the piece.

The melody drifted through the open door, spilling into the hallways of the building. Steven liked to keep the door open; to him, there was something unnatural about barricading yourself away in your apartment alone, keeping yourself apart from your neighbors and those around you.

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arkhospheleteon
2011-01-17 02:57 pm UTC (link)

It was seldom that Philip's "scavenging" of neighbouring apartments ever took him into the upper levels of Pax Letale. There simply was no good reason for it when he did not take things out of some desire for financial gain, but rather the necessity of a full stomach or the simple comfort of feeling fresh and clean. His needs were typically sated by those who had the misfortune of living below the seventh level, always conveniently located on the route to his own abode, and it mattered not to him whether the shirt he procured was store brand or designer. It was also the more logical of the two options. While the upper levels might have housed the more expensive units, suggestive thus of more valuable possessions, it also meant that these items were more distinctive, traceable, and easier to take note of when they went missing. But Philip might also have been deterred by the mere fact that the higher one went, the harder it was and longer it took to make one's escape.

Yet, this knowledge had not kept Philip away from the deluxe suites and penthouses altogether. He had a mind that was perpetually under the thrall of its own inquisitiveness, and his natural bent was toward exploration and investigation. Curiosity brought him to the upper levels, and his interest was only further peaked when he caught the sound of an elusive note, straying from the company of its completed measure. It drew Philip down the hallway, soon joined by fuller chords that sketched out a more distinguishable melody, and he barely noticed as he crossed the threshold of a doorway into the open space of a stranger's apartment. The music was a siren's call, the vibrancy and warmth of the strings played reverberating in the hollow of his chest that made him feel at one with the piece in a fashion that could not be replicated by listening to recordings. When he saw at last its source, the hands that manipulated with ease and grace, gliding over the instrument to evoke such artistry of sound, Philip watched spellbound until the player brought his fingers to a pause.

"You know, when I was in elementary school, they tried to teach all of the kids how to play the recorder. I guess they were trying to instill in us some appreciation of the fine arts, but it didn't exactly work out," Philip spoke without thinking, words leaving his lips in a steady rush as though he believed the silence might be too painful without the music that had previously filled it. "Most just liked to see how loud a noise they could manage, and me, well, I was more interested in pulling them apart and seeing if I couldn't make something new out of all those plastic pieces. But what you did just now, I have to say, it makes me a little bit sorry that I didn't pay more attention back then." His gaze, which had been previously hovered only on the body of the guitar, at last lifted to meet the eyes of the musician.

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thegodofrock
2011-01-18 04:00 am UTC (link)

Steven was never shy around an audience. Even when he had first been learning to play, he had reveled in the attention of others -- especially those who seemed only full of compliments.

"Well," Steven answered once his audience had finished up his speech, "It's never too late to start." His fingers moved down the strings, strumming a few simple chords. The music remained just below his speech, almost harmonized to his response. "Come on in."

Steven's apartment had not improved much in the few days he had been "settled in." Boxes were everywhere, some opened but many more simply piled against the walls. The furniture had been placed neatly where it belonged, including a large piano and a few other guitars. It was obvious Steven was a newcomer to Pax -- and a rather lazy one at that.

"I was just giving her a tune up," he explained, patting the side of the guitar with a gentle, loving hand. "Name's Steven Shiancoe." This was accompanied by a sound on the guitar that could only be described as fanfare.