Post by Maxwell Green on May 9, 2007 15:27:14 GMT -5
Sketching.
Drawing.
Doodling.
Call it what you will. Sonny Moore was doing it. He laid casually across a wooden bench adjacent to the playground that no one was playing on. Ah, well. Perhaps it was better they didn't. The equipment looked old and rusty and quite unsanitary, as if even attempting to slide down a slide or swing on a swing would cause it to collapse, and would end in a broken bone and also possibly getting some kind of strange disease like malaria or something else as equally crazy. Okay, maybe that idea was a little far-fetched, but Sonny's imagination tended to be a little out there sometimes. It was evident through his drawings and writings.
Sonny wasn't exactly an artist. He could draw as well as the average seventeen-year-old goth or emo kid could... which probably was as good as a few stick figures or some crazy, twisted design that involved a bunch of squiggles and lines. However, Sonny was quite good at graffiti. That probably wasn't the best thing to be good at in the field of art, since it was probably best connected to vandalism, but, Sonny didn't really care that much. A few upperclassmen had shown him how to draw it when he first came here as a freshman, and he took quite a liking to it. He took an even greater liking to writing, however.
Whatever Sonny lacked in art, he made up for in literature and poetry. He was most definitely very talented when it came to writing songs and lyrics. He had been doing it for quite a while now, since he was around ten or eleven. Some about his life, his feelings and insecurities, etc. Most of them were dark and kind of depressing, which, people probably wouldn't expect from Sonny. He never appeared depressed or unhappy at all. In fact, he was normally quite the opposite. He was very friendly toward most people, and could sometimes get a little loud or obnoxious. You never would've guessed someone so sweet and open about himself could feel so horrible.
Finally, Sonny paused. He rested the notebook he was doodling in on his lap and reached his hand into his back pocket, pulling out a packet of Marlboro cigarettes and a black lighter. He didn't smoke often. Normally, he did it for relaxation purposes. And at the moment, Sonny wanted nothing more than to relax. He put a cigarette between his lips and pressed the flame from the lighter to it, sighing softly through his nostrils. He shoved the packet and lighter back into the pocket of his extremely tight, black jeans, and picked up his notebook again.
Sonny had the same notebook ever since he started writing. It was filled with lyrics and poems and even some artwork. It looked kind of old and tattered, but Sonny wouldn't give it up if you paid him. In it, held his life, his thoughts, his feelings, his everything. He'd probably be lost without it. Through his songs, he explained the sorrow in his heart, the dismal (and sometimes even a little perverted) thoughts in his mind. Some talked about murder and death, while others discussed how he suffered from anorexia and feelings of hopelessness and woe. Though, you never would've suspected such a person who acted so shamelessly could suffer from such insecurity in one's appearance.
He flipped through the pages, reading the words he had written, his eyes scanning the words across the pages from left to right. He slowly took the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between his index and middle finger that were partially covered by black, fingerless gloves. He exhaled slowly, emitting a deep, grey fog into the air, that almost matched the grey in his grey and black striped sweater, that was almost as tight on him as his jeans were.
He bit down gently at the rings on either side of his bottom lip, moving them back and forth with his tongue. Snakebite piercings: something Sonny had gotten against his parents will when he was sixteen. He had wanted them ever since he was a boy, and finally decided that he couldn't wait until he was eighteen, so, he got it done while his parents thought he was out riding his bike. Pssht. Sonny didn't even own a bike at the time, and if he did, he probably wouldn't have rode it, anyway.
He shifted a little, pressing the bottoms of his black, Vans shoes against the arm of the bench. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he put the cigarette back into his mouth. He glanced up at the small groups of teenage children that had formed near the other side of the playground. Some of them looked at him, giving him strange looks. Sonny didn't care. He looked back toward his notebook, his small, pale figure looking frail and cold against the wood and beneath the dark clouds that had begun to form overhead.
Drawing.
Doodling.
Call it what you will. Sonny Moore was doing it. He laid casually across a wooden bench adjacent to the playground that no one was playing on. Ah, well. Perhaps it was better they didn't. The equipment looked old and rusty and quite unsanitary, as if even attempting to slide down a slide or swing on a swing would cause it to collapse, and would end in a broken bone and also possibly getting some kind of strange disease like malaria or something else as equally crazy. Okay, maybe that idea was a little far-fetched, but Sonny's imagination tended to be a little out there sometimes. It was evident through his drawings and writings.
Sonny wasn't exactly an artist. He could draw as well as the average seventeen-year-old goth or emo kid could... which probably was as good as a few stick figures or some crazy, twisted design that involved a bunch of squiggles and lines. However, Sonny was quite good at graffiti. That probably wasn't the best thing to be good at in the field of art, since it was probably best connected to vandalism, but, Sonny didn't really care that much. A few upperclassmen had shown him how to draw it when he first came here as a freshman, and he took quite a liking to it. He took an even greater liking to writing, however.
Whatever Sonny lacked in art, he made up for in literature and poetry. He was most definitely very talented when it came to writing songs and lyrics. He had been doing it for quite a while now, since he was around ten or eleven. Some about his life, his feelings and insecurities, etc. Most of them were dark and kind of depressing, which, people probably wouldn't expect from Sonny. He never appeared depressed or unhappy at all. In fact, he was normally quite the opposite. He was very friendly toward most people, and could sometimes get a little loud or obnoxious. You never would've guessed someone so sweet and open about himself could feel so horrible.
Finally, Sonny paused. He rested the notebook he was doodling in on his lap and reached his hand into his back pocket, pulling out a packet of Marlboro cigarettes and a black lighter. He didn't smoke often. Normally, he did it for relaxation purposes. And at the moment, Sonny wanted nothing more than to relax. He put a cigarette between his lips and pressed the flame from the lighter to it, sighing softly through his nostrils. He shoved the packet and lighter back into the pocket of his extremely tight, black jeans, and picked up his notebook again.
Sonny had the same notebook ever since he started writing. It was filled with lyrics and poems and even some artwork. It looked kind of old and tattered, but Sonny wouldn't give it up if you paid him. In it, held his life, his thoughts, his feelings, his everything. He'd probably be lost without it. Through his songs, he explained the sorrow in his heart, the dismal (and sometimes even a little perverted) thoughts in his mind. Some talked about murder and death, while others discussed how he suffered from anorexia and feelings of hopelessness and woe. Though, you never would've suspected such a person who acted so shamelessly could suffer from such insecurity in one's appearance.
He flipped through the pages, reading the words he had written, his eyes scanning the words across the pages from left to right. He slowly took the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between his index and middle finger that were partially covered by black, fingerless gloves. He exhaled slowly, emitting a deep, grey fog into the air, that almost matched the grey in his grey and black striped sweater, that was almost as tight on him as his jeans were.
He bit down gently at the rings on either side of his bottom lip, moving them back and forth with his tongue. Snakebite piercings: something Sonny had gotten against his parents will when he was sixteen. He had wanted them ever since he was a boy, and finally decided that he couldn't wait until he was eighteen, so, he got it done while his parents thought he was out riding his bike. Pssht. Sonny didn't even own a bike at the time, and if he did, he probably wouldn't have rode it, anyway.
He shifted a little, pressing the bottoms of his black, Vans shoes against the arm of the bench. He narrowed his eyes slightly as he put the cigarette back into his mouth. He glanced up at the small groups of teenage children that had formed near the other side of the playground. Some of them looked at him, giving him strange looks. Sonny didn't care. He looked back toward his notebook, his small, pale figure looking frail and cold against the wood and beneath the dark clouds that had begun to form overhead.
