Eve
I always dreamed of being famous. Or rather my music. It was pleasing to imagine people hum melodies I have composed. Drum their fingers on the metro's bar the chords that wore my signature. Say the title of one of my works with pride. I wanted to leave a trace, make the world sing and the entire Universe dance. Instead, I passed my entire Wednesday afternoons locked in my room, contemplating the crackled paint of my ceiling in search for whatever inspiration that could shake my sense of an amateur musician. Until now, I haven't succeeded in fixing with aggressiveness my empty sheets, changing constantly my pens and my places in my room believing it could improve my situation. But I was only hitting myself against one evidence way too painful for a naive 17 year old girl that I was. My gift for musical composition was merely imaginary. Ashamed, I copied entire works of Chopin so my parents don't divert my passion. Seeing sheets filled with hieroglyphs, they were relieved thinking at least, I put in practice years of expensive music theory class.
But in reality, no emotion came to me at all. Recluse in my artist lair, I refused all interaction with the outside world, terrified that an idea could come and corrupt my will. Until the day when everything I believed was avoided explodes in my face like a firework in a dark night.
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The color of silence
Short StoryTHIS IS A TRANSLATION, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TO @AvySpark *** Ares is a teenage boy that one day, falls silent. His silence destroys his relatives who end up abandoning the young boy with his own silence. And as Ares abandoned words, painting becomes...
