Amusement (A Greek Group Story)
This is a story of nine teenagers, each with special talents. What they don't know is that their special talents come from something much bigger and more important then the know. Together, they might just be able to save our world, and theirs.
Speak, Sleep, and Breathe Music (Lark)
As the crowd around me starts to thin as I make my way to a less-popular part of New York, I become more aware of my familiar surroundings. The dark damp alleyways, the stony walkways, and the tall buildings. I had been here so many times, I've lost track.
Soon, I turn into a grey building. The windows act as mirrors on the outside, but once you enter, you can see all that is going on outside. As I step into the empty building, I breathe in the comforting smell of dust. The first floor is full of covered-up furniture, and there is a large desk pushed against the back wall. Off in one room to the side is an entire theater; off to the other side is a classroom, the walls covered in taped-on papers full of scribbled notes from a previous visitor. The carpeted floor allows my feet to sink in as I make my way over to the narrow metal stairs leading to the second floor.
The second story has a wood floor, and you are completely surrounded by mirrors. Everywhere you look, there you are, looking right back at you. Metal poles connect to the mirrors. This is the dance floor. I grab a step-stool from the corner of the room, and place it under a tile in the roof. Reaching upward, I pull it down, and it swings out, allowing a ladder to unfold.
Climbing the steps, I swear I hear a noise, like a door opening. I ponder on whether or not to check it out, but I dismiss the thought and continue climbing the stairs.
As I step onto the creaky wooden floor of the building's attic, I take in the room that I had visited hundreds of times. Astronomy books and star maps littered the floor. I didn't dare rearrange them. I feel like this place was an artifact, and if I messed with it, I was messing with history. A big, bronze old-fashioned looking telescope stood, poking out the window. I had looked in it before, and it worked remarkably well. It was funny, because everything was either coated with dust, or obviously hadn't been touched in years, while this telescope always stayed clean, the bronze shining in the dark.
I open a door that connects this room to another. This room is my favorite. Hanging on the walls are all kind of instruments. Violins, guitars, saxophones.....every kind. In the corner was a beautifully old piano. Stacks of written music lined the walls, almost all of which I had played.
The most beautiful part of the room, though, is the altar in the back. A window lets the light shine through onto it, and on top is a double-flute cushioned by a gold pillow. Whenever I would try to get close, something would tell me to back away. I didn't take the chance, and listened to the voice.
I sit on the piano bench, and position my hands on the keys. My pale, short fingers spring into action. Despite their small size, I actually feel like I'm pretty good at what I do, if I do say so myself.
The music is like a veil. It makes the emotions easily visible, but somewhat still covered-up. There can be many possibilities to what it means, but no matter what your guess is, there's no doubt that it's beautiful.
I add my voice into the song. My words speak for the music. Ever since I was little, I have always been into singing and writing music.
In fact, I've always been into any kind of music. I don't know why, but it's just in my nature. I feel like I was made to play music. It's in my bones, my blood, my nerves....I speak, sleep, and breathe music.
When the last note fades, I just sit before the black and white keys. I sigh, and think back to this morning....
"Hello, love." My father says.
"Father." I reply curtly. My dad had never been exactly, well, stable.
My dad drops his glass on the tile, and it shatters into thousands of pieces. I sigh and start to sweep up the glass, carefully.
"That's not smart." My dad says. I roll my eyes and don't reply. Sure I loved my dad. I guess.
"Lark, let me do that." My father says, and starts to lean forward helping me. But I didn't trust him.
"NO!" I yell, and throw up my hands to stop him. He stops, but I slash my palm and start to bleed. I bite down on my lip, and throw away the shards of glass.
"Lark, are you alright?" My dad asks.
"No. See you later, Father." I say, and head over to the front door. As I open it, I hear my father snoring in the other room. He won't even remember this morning by the time it's eight o'clock.
I sigh, and get jolted back to reality when I hear footsteps coming from the dance room. I catch my breath, and stay still for just a couple seconds. The footsteps don't stop, and eventually, my curiosity gets the best of me.
I try my best, and by some miracle, make it to the steps without the floor creaking. I stop, and tuck my long chestnut hair behind my hear to listen for just a minute. The footsteps are soft, and follow a certain rhythm. Just by the sound, I can tell the mystery person is wearing soft shoes, and is very graceful.
I descend the stairs quickly, and whip my head around to get a better look at the person. They don't notice me for another couple seconds, because they are busy ballet dancing. It may have just been a couple seconds, but it might as well have been a full ballet number. The dance was beautiful and reminded me of running water.
Finally, they stop dancing when they catch a glimpse of me in the mirror. It's a girl. We make eye-contact in the reflection, and then she turns around slowly to look at me straight on.
For some reason, she seems familiar. Not necessarily what she looks like, but her essence. She just seems familiar.
She looked like a dancer. Her arms, legs, and torso were lean and long, and she had a willowy build. She wasn't bulky with muscle, but she was clearly framed with it. She looked about 5'5 with high cheek bones, and a square jaw line, with a regal expression (when she was dancing, I could have sworn her expression displayed every human emotion). She was olive-skinned, and had small green eyes which were surrounded by long dark lashes that reminded me of my own. Her hair was dark and pulled into a tight bun.
The mystery girl clenched and unclenched her fists. She finally breaks the painful silence.
"Who are you?"
A/N: I think that A_Small_Drop/Odette should write next :)
By the way, fellow authors, you need to make an A/N like this, saying who you want to write next (no repeats please!)