Sunday Morning Symphony
*by Katie
Well guys, I've been working on writing more...I guess, "eloquently" would be a good word. Something pretty and poetic and flowy.
So I don't know if this'll do that, but hey. Your decision, not mine.
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The smell of summer and breakfast and maple trees is heavy in the humid July air. Sweat sticks to the few are awake, making their clothes stick to clammy skin. The only sound is the gentle strum of a guitar, a simple meeting of calloused fingers to thin strings.
A young diva slumbers in her bed. Dreams of wealth, fame, and renown haunt her rather than appeal to her. Silken pink pajamas cover her figure and highlight the purple cell phone she clutches with thin, pale fingers.
A thin, lithe girl (no more than fifteen) sits in the performance house. She taps keys on her computer, frowning when she hits incorrect letter and number patterns, and blows her bangs from her eyes. There is no time for fun or games, because in the real world, only the best make it.
Two best friends eat breakfast in the dusty, yet comforting, Mess Hall. Sweet morsels slip through lip-glossed mouths as one discusses nail polish and Connect Three's most recent album. Here, they are innocent. They are unbreakable. They are perfect in their own ways. They are enough.
A confused girl and a misguided boy lay side by side on the dock. They listen to the crickets chirp and the water swirl as the boy slips his fingers between the girl's. And they fit perfectly, but neither feels comfortable enough to say so. He just wants someone to laugh with, and she just wants to make him feel like himself.
A middle-aged man, his face wrought with smile lines and freckles, reclines back on a tall, shady tree. His fingers strum a battered old guitar, one that has been with him since before he can remember. The guitar is a consistent force, a steady constant. It gives, and asks for nothing in return. The guitar is his pseudo best friend, and keeps him company when there is no one else. The man is not crazy. Simply attached.
An alarm clock goes off, marring the perfect silence. The tinny ring of the alert can be heard at least a quarter of a mile away. A dark-skinned boy wearing shorts that are entirely too big for him practically bounces to life, hitting his best friend over the head with a pillow. Laughter replaces the alarm clock, and people in their nice, warm beds in craftily built cabins stir and awaken, some smiling and some wishing for a few more moments of the silent Sunday morning symphony.
Good morning, Camp Rock.
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Eh. Decidedly pointless and stupid. I guess it could be considered sort of a character study. ;) You figure out the characters.
Please review with more than "so cute" or "i loved it," thank you. :)