Reinc Snippets
Since ya'll seemed so excited about it (heh)
Here's Hannah's 'Self Love' for ReInc.
High tone, low. A sing song rhythm of noises strung together in what could have been words, but really was only a sing song repetition and extension of the music. No meaning lingered in the words because they were nearly unrecognizable, sliding together with all the emphases on the wrong syllables in order to match the thrum of the music. The small CD whirred quietly to itself, a carefully picked pair of batteries taken from a used pack that Melody, she hoped, didn’t exactly need powering the self-indulgent device.
She’d sneaked it into her pack, stowing it away carefully underneath a folded shirt and skirt, the edges neat and crisp in the middle of her bag. Now, still battered and worn, the CD player with all the instructions written in blocky Mandarin connected her to a voice and a language she’d left behind. Chinese needed tones to be recognizable, but she didn’t care. The worn edge of an accent, the light touch of a thick vowel, and the slide of traditional song mixed with modern guitars connected her to the language that she feared faded from her mind.
For a blissful hour, Hannah curled up in a corner of her room, and listened to home.
And here's a peek inside Antony's head:
Hitting the floor hurt, and for an hour afterwards he’d walk with a limp. The chair nearly broke, but didn’t, and would most likely fall apart underneath someone else in the next week.
But when Antony pushed himself up from a graceful dive into the floor, ankle complaining, hands bleeding, the applause of laughter lingering in the eyes of every person in the room met him with a loud, booming echo. Even the girl with dark glasses and purple hair hid a smile behind a book, even if it resembled more closely a smirk.
And really, that was worth a limp.
Here's Hannah's 'Self Love' for ReInc.
High tone, low. A sing song rhythm of noises strung together in what could have been words, but really was only a sing song repetition and extension of the music. No meaning lingered in the words because they were nearly unrecognizable, sliding together with all the emphases on the wrong syllables in order to match the thrum of the music. The small CD whirred quietly to itself, a carefully picked pair of batteries taken from a used pack that Melody, she hoped, didn’t exactly need powering the self-indulgent device.
She’d sneaked it into her pack, stowing it away carefully underneath a folded shirt and skirt, the edges neat and crisp in the middle of her bag. Now, still battered and worn, the CD player with all the instructions written in blocky Mandarin connected her to a voice and a language she’d left behind. Chinese needed tones to be recognizable, but she didn’t care. The worn edge of an accent, the light touch of a thick vowel, and the slide of traditional song mixed with modern guitars connected her to the language that she feared faded from her mind.
For a blissful hour, Hannah curled up in a corner of her room, and listened to home.
And here's a peek inside Antony's head:
Hitting the floor hurt, and for an hour afterwards he’d walk with a limp. The chair nearly broke, but didn’t, and would most likely fall apart underneath someone else in the next week.
But when Antony pushed himself up from a graceful dive into the floor, ankle complaining, hands bleeding, the applause of laughter lingering in the eyes of every person in the room met him with a loud, booming echo. Even the girl with dark glasses and purple hair hid a smile behind a book, even if it resembled more closely a smirk.
And really, that was worth a limp.