hello. i have a new story that won't make sense to you all.
this is a very personal work of fiction (as most of mine are). you might not get it, and you might feel jipped that i put it as "craig and tweek". but in my mind, craig is there.
i also highly suggest you go in youtube and look up some sad violin songs. it will help a lot.
i dont own sp.
haha, p.s. i'm soradestati on deviantart! you may or may not know me. if you don't, then, that's okay. if you do, then, hi!
resonance.
The greys of grace spread along the long sky, riveting with plumps of clouds curved and shaped elegently. Echos of brimming whispers tousled carelessly around. There was a region of dead land, patches of dried earth broken only by deep, wounded cracks from age. Lushful plants had long since slipped away, a hazy fog blanketing the otherwise naked earth. Exposed, and shameful, the ground was stretched to either ends of the planes until reaching only the souless sky. The ground itself was poisoned by a black scourge, the deep color bleeding into the dirt and contrasting the sky above it. They paralleled one another in perfect, heartless symbiosis, forever constrating one another.
If there was a moon, or a sun, or a night sky floating above the clouds, or if there were any flowers or weeds sprouting from the dead, flayed earth, they'd never been seen. Color was absent from this plane. It existed is as a stand-still wretched hollow. An endless inbetween. An inhale that was never released, or the stumble before a fall. It flowed beautifully and effortlessly. Not a stone had ever been turned, nor did a wind exist to toss a even the smallest speck of dust in this barren wasteland. The clouds forever unmoving.
The only break from a seemingly endless, seemingly deserted branch of land was a weak Maple Tree embedded to the ground. It stood with a slouch, the bark withered and dry and reflecting well the same color as the earth. Its limbs reached out in all different directions, as if flailing for something to hold to. It's leaves had long since stripped, leaving it open and bare to the stale air. The branches were thin and sickly looking, greying in some areas, as if a sickness had begun to eat its way from the inside out. The tree appeared devoid of live, a carcus left to be salvaged. A few branches littered the base of the tree, toppled over thick, clumsy roots and turning to dust. It appeared charred from age and death, soulless yet still standing with heavy arms.
Beneath the long tree was the only remaining source of sound. With his sickly thin back pressed lightly against the tree's base, a ghost of a boy fluidly pulled at the strings of a violin at his neck. He was bare, like the tree, and his skin so white it resembled paper. He was thin and a small, and strange in such a still place. His body held tremors, breaking the otherwise sweet melody into cracks of disturbance and disillusioned notes. His hair resembled that of a bird's nest, or a bouquet of sunflowers touseled together in golden whirls. The red from his ears cascading like vermillion blooming flowers, bleeding onto the otherwise stainless black earth. His eyes were closed as he pulled at the violin, a soft noise whipping from the instrument and shuddering with his movement.
A groan could be heard in the tree above, although the boy didn't falter. Even as another branch snapped and collapsed to the earth, never once did he hesitate his whispering tune. It held no rhythm or balance, yet still managed to flow ever outwards like silk in the breeze.
It was then, a soft hum began to grace the circuits of his instrument. It slipped in from the North, growing ever louder in the seemingly timeless wasteland. As the static grew louder, the red from his ears began to grow thicker. It dripped to the earth, the small beads forming puddles of crimson. Still, h-he tried to pull at the strings more, but the humming grew louder.
Louder, still he pulled.
Louder, they were coming, still he pulled.
Louder, s-still he pulled.
A blue cloud began its hazy ascent, the humming of a thousand wings from blue cicadas erupting the area with song. The small boy's violin's noise wa all but drowned out, the melody shaken even further from his nervousness with the insects. As they swarmed the dry land, they began taring into the tree and the boy. The branches began to collapse on one another, the charred bark disintigrating into ash. The sickness from within the tree dispersed once exposed, and as it began to breakdown within itself it settled into the earth.
The land was now riveting with the flurry of blue cicadas, a lapis-lazuli sea expanding over the previous blackened dirt. Once the tree had fallen, the boy was no longer protected from the onslaught of cicadas. They began taring into him as well, yet he still pulled clumsily at his strings. They seemed intoxicated by his music, drawn to him by the warmth of his melody. The hurt in his song carried to them. Piece by piece, the boy was torn away. His ears blown out, eyes torn away.
However, his usual quirks and trembles which normally caused quakes to pierce his consonance were matched by the cicadas. As they broke into his body and into his violin they completed the tune into perfect resonanting harmony, the song finally circulating true. The barren wasteland was swirling to the brim with the perfectly melodious tune, strong hymns of passion and dwindling flickers of tune bellowing out. As the cicadas drove into him deeper, a note strung high and clear, oscilating to the heavens.
As the last of the cicadas skimmed the air, a strong silence embaced the nothingness.