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Through the eyes of a bass playerThe skin on his fingers shredded against the nickle-wound strings; they cut away at his fingers like a saw while sliding up and down the wood of the neck. His right hand punched and danced on each string, slapping the frets, letting the humbuckers pick up each frequency he craved. Each note symbolized the highs and lows of his life. Blood squeezed its way out and onto the white pick guard, revealing the pain he was going through to meet everyone’s needs. He was tired out, almost ready to breakdown and give in, but he didn't. He ignored the pain and played with all his might, tearing through the filter, growling and rumbling through the music. The bass thundered over the rest of the commotion, desperately trying to capture the attention of the audience in the room. They noticed him for a brief measurement. Noticing the complement the bass gave to the music. It shared a similar relation with the drums, had a companionship with the guitar, and backed up the low, violent tone of the
Frost Bite Chapter 2
They all started to rise now.
One by one every dead body that was lying on the ground started to fight their way onto their feet with the same attribute as the first. The moans of the passengers became unbearable. A woman crawled through the aisle towards me because she didn’t have enough muscle on her legs to stand. All of their petrifying eyes gazed at me, and only me. Without hesitating, I shut the door and turned to run in the other direction; but instead tripping and smacking my head again on a corner of one of the passenger seats. Everything went black. The moans of the people in the other coach became background noise to the overwhelming, high frequency ringing going through my head.
“Son-of-a.” I held my head. Blood gushed from the new gash above my left eye. “Great, exactly what I needed.” The passengers in the other coach started trying to break down the door. “What do you want with me!?” I scream in terror and
“Abraham? What’s wrong, dear?”
Mother looked the same this whole year: broken. Her long, cold fingers were stroking my check and wiping my running eyes. I moved my head away from her and tried to speak. I couldn’t. I was trying to catch my breath; I must’ve been crying so hard without noticing. “I… miss him.” The words dumbly fell over the cracks in my chapped lips. She froze and stared right through me, almost as if she was trying to listen to what I was thinking within the walls of my skull.
“We all miss him. Johnny’s in a better place now, and he would want us to be happy and keep living for him.” All I could do now was just nod. She was the one in tears now, and I knew she wanted to hear that I was okay. We were standing in Johnny’s old room. Nothing has changed since the last time he was here. Toys scattered across the ground, blankets and sheets were pulled off the bed, and clo
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More