Whose Song is it Anyway? (Vanilla, Chocolate, K-S + Pocky + Fresh Blueberries)
Master Work: Sparksong
Challenges/Toppings: Vanilla #27 (routines), Chocolate #25 (inspiration), Kiwi-Strawberry #8 (solo)
Extra: Pocky (100 words exactly) + Fresh Blueberries; “Music is like a mirror in front of you. You're exposing everything, but surely that's better than suppressing. ... You have to dig deep and that can be hard for anybody, no matter what profession. I feel that I need to actually push myself to the limit to feel happy with the end result.” - Enya
Rating: G.
Title: Whose Song is it Anyway?
Summary: Musical improv.
Notes: Ahahahaha. And yes, this is the last for today. I just remembered I had to post fruit challenges day-of, so.
Every evening, Meivu would cough thrice into a napkin (a thoroughly pointless practice), shake her arms out, crack her neck, and await her cue. Côme, settled with his violin in the corner, would choose a tune and begin to play, sometimes fast, mostly slow, always wondering if this would be the time Meivu couldn’t come up with something.
But she always did; an aria or a ballad, in the common language or the river-daughters’ secret tongue (though Côme thought this unfair for the exercise); never waiting long before jumping in as if she had practiced the words hours beforehand.
Challenges/Toppings: Vanilla #27 (routines), Chocolate #25 (inspiration), Kiwi-Strawberry #8 (solo)
Extra: Pocky (100 words exactly) + Fresh Blueberries; “Music is like a mirror in front of you. You're exposing everything, but surely that's better than suppressing. ... You have to dig deep and that can be hard for anybody, no matter what profession. I feel that I need to actually push myself to the limit to feel happy with the end result.” - Enya
Rating: G.
Title: Whose Song is it Anyway?
Summary: Musical improv.
Notes: Ahahahaha. And yes, this is the last for today. I just remembered I had to post fruit challenges day-of, so.
Every evening, Meivu would cough thrice into a napkin (a thoroughly pointless practice), shake her arms out, crack her neck, and await her cue. Côme, settled with his violin in the corner, would choose a tune and begin to play, sometimes fast, mostly slow, always wondering if this would be the time Meivu couldn’t come up with something.
But she always did; an aria or a ballad, in the common language or the river-daughters’ secret tongue (though Côme thought this unfair for the exercise); never waiting long before jumping in as if she had practiced the words hours beforehand.