chalk the sidewalks - [speckie]

[patrick neal king •]

[height]

A young man who was older than the usual college crowd strummed the acoustic guitar, sitting on the large stairs in front of one of the cafes on main street, with the case open on the step lower than him with some small bills and change tossed in. The man was wearing dark washed skinny jeans and a solid white button up shirt with a black sweater opened and over top of it.

His brown shoes tapped to the beat of the music he was playing simply, and he gently hummed a few words of the song that he had written himself, though he wasn't about to sing them out loud. He wasn't a singer, well. He was a 'singer', but he didn't enjoy singing in front of people. He figured the head of his shower got to hear the best of the voice of Patrick King.

Patrick didn't sing back in Chicago either, except to his girlfriend, Amy. Oh how many songs he had written and braved to sing because of her - he didn't want to think about it. When he thought about it, he couldn't tell if it was anger or intense sadness. What else would make him live the city he was born in, and lived in, and loved? He couldn't stand to walk to the old hangout places. Patrick was a passive man, and confronting something like that just didn't register well to him. He couldn't do it, he wouldn't, and he didn't.

But where would a man with little money to move go? A college town. Plenty of room to blend in with the artists, and the things around there would fit the budget of a young artist. He managed to save enough to afford a small one room + kitchen and bathroom artists' studio as an 'apartment' which was one step above cardboard box, and in a beat up neighborhood.

Besides the city, Patrick missed writing. He only wrote two songs about his break up. Other than that, he didn't want to spoil his track list with songs that have been written thousands of times. It wasn't him.

He didn't really know anyone, and he didn't mind it. Leaving his old life behind him was a daunting task, but he shared his best friends with Amy, and he didn't want anything dragging him back to Chicago. It had to be that way.

Though he knew something was for sure - he'd return to Chicago one day. Until then, he'd keep playing on the sidewalks and singing in the shelter of his new home.

[/height]

now do you want dignity,
or do you want love?
go ahead and want both but you only get one.
let's make the same mistakes
in a brand new place.

[Mary Aoife Stuart]

[height]Time was moving a lot faster than it had at the start of the test. But it was supposed to be that way. The professor had added several little mind tricks as an experiment to explain how the human brain works. Mary's handwriting had progressively gotten more snarled together in their messy, slanted way. Narrowing her eyes as she stared intently at the paper, she added a few more sentences and put her pencil down with a pleased flourish and a relieved sigh. That was over, thank heavens. The buzzer had just seconds on the clock, and she didn't want to be one of those people who didn't finish before the buzzer. Especially not in this class. In this class, the professor loved making people feel like idiots.

Smiling candidly, Mary stood up and handed her paper in to the teacher. Dipping her head in a silent goodbye, the student quickly threw her things into the large, horribly unorganized backpack she'd brought with her. Carefully skirting the strewn backpacks and computer bags, Mary made her unbalanced way through the maze, stumbling to the end and out the door. There'd been a few snickers from the class, but she could ignore those. They were still in the room with her professor. Squinting her eyes, the young adult glanced about. It was almost time to head off to her job if she wanted to get there early enough to see some of her friends before they got into party-mode. Only part of her wished she could be hanging out with them, but it was a particularly small part.

The rest of her reminded her that she had yet to cover her apartment's rent and spending it on a shot of scotch wasn't beneficial.

As she jogged lightly toward Main Street, she glanced at her disheveled self in one of the small shops' windows. Her hair was neater than usual, but it had a windblown and scattered look to it. Part of it was a little higher than the rest because she'd rested her head on her hand through the test. Her face turned that flushed pink it always did when she ran. As she continued on her jog, the sweet serenade of music floated toward her. It was guitar. Her brother loved playing the guitar, though he'd only gotten decent at the end of her stint in California. It was in the same direction as the diner she worked at, so it wouldn't be much trouble to stop and watch whoever was playing play. And it'd be a great reminder of home - which was very much the opposite of Miala Nenina. The city had nothing to the college-focused town here.

As Mary continued her rapid, awkward jog, the music continued to increase in volume. When she sped up, she had to pull up her jeans. She'd lost weight here because between practice for the soccer team, academics, work, and a general lack of time, there wasn't much time to eat. Reminder to Self: Get jeans that are looser on the legs and skinnier on the waist. Laughing silently, the girl stopped in front of the guitar player, her pink face grinning cheerfully. The boy didn't look familiar, but that didn't mean much. Mary, still new to the school, was basically limited to the regulars at the diner she worked at and the college's soccer team. Some of the people in her science classes were jerks.

"Hey. Don't recognize that song. Wanna sing it? I love the sound of a guitar. My brother plays it - but he definitely stinks. You play way better. Keep playing," her slightly accented voice. Having two parents with extraordinarily strong Scottish brogue had rubbed off on her. The blonde blushed a little as she realized she'd forgotten her "manners," not that you could see it. Her face was pretty pink from the mile jog from the auditorium to here. "Oh. I'm Mary. Mary Stuart. I go to the college, and you probably do, too. You dress like a college student, and you aren't as chubby as the people who live here and can actually afford people." Mary grinned and laughed a little at her own joke. The girl reached a hand out for the boy to shake it.

Perhaps she was being a bit forward, but she'd always loved talking to street musicians in Los Angeles. It wasn't much different here except that there weren't anyone really playing in the street and people were watching them through their shop windows. Ah, well.

[/height]

teenage dreams in a teenage circus
running around like a clown on purpose
who gives a darn about the family you come from
no giving up when you're young and you want some

[patrick neal king •]

[height]

The young man was focused on his guitar, watching his hands move easily from chord to chord, the pads of his fingers had thick skin after putting so much pressure on the strings for so long. He smirked as he remembered the days where it almost hurt to play day after day. It was after that, that Patrick became determined to learn to play as many instruments as possible. Instead of having a TV in his small home, he had instruments lying around.

Concentrated heavily on what he was doing, Patrick blocked out the sound of the people walking by, only hearing the sound of a handful of change clunk as it hit his guitar case. He glanced up for a moment, glancing as the sun started sinking downward in the sky, it was almost dark, and almost time to grab a cup of tea from the cafe and start the longer walk back home. Back where he lived, there wasn't a lot of people who had any money or time to give him, so he made the trek to main street often. It wasn't a hard job - he couldn't complain.

His concentration was broken when he noticed a pair of feet stopping in front of him out of the corner of his eye, his pace of strumming faltered a little bit as he looked up, and slowed to a quieter pace as the red-faced girl in front of him had started to talk. He glanced up at her with his greenish brown eyes as she spoke to him, out of his surprise. "Hey. Don't recognize that song. Wanna sing it? I love the sound of a guitar. My brother plays it - but he definitely stinks. You play way better. Keep playing," He looked down at his guitar, and then shook his head and glanced back up at her.

''No, no. I don't sing. Just play.'' He said with a half-hearted laugh and then nodded as she suggested to keep playing, lightly strumming the guitar once more, not being too loud in case she had something else to say - though he couldn't help but let his eyes sink back down to glance at his hand on the neck of the guitar. Sure enough she did,

"Oh. I'm Mary. Mary Stuart. I go to the college, and you probably do, too. You dress like a college student, and you aren't as chubby as the people who live here and can actually afford people."

Patrick glanced up at her and stood up awkwardly, swinging the guitar behind him, and shaking her hand with a frazzled expression, ''King, uh, Patrick King.'' He said to her simply, ''I'm, ha ha, not a college student though.'' He said reaching his hand back and rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. He glanced down at the money he collected with a laugh, ''Clearly, I'm not close to eating caviar, but it works'' He said simply, though having no idea how to carry the conversation. He used to be good at sustaining conversation, not initiating it, but now it appeared he wasn't good at either.

now do you want dignity,
or do you want love?
go ahead and want both but you only get one.
let's make the same mistakes
in a brand new place.

[Mary Aoife Stuart]

[height]
Mary shifted awkwardly when she realized that she startled the young guitar player. She supposed she was probably interfering with his relaxation, and probably his income if this was what he did instead of getting a job. Really, Mary. You have to stop being so careless. What if he can't eat or something a couple days from now because you stopped people from giving you tips? The blonde mentally slapped herself around even as her mouth continued to yabber on at the poor guy. This was why she had so few friends. She scared people away.

But, she'd been horribly bored lately. All her days had been filled with tedious repetition. Soccer practice had been "cancelled" because the coach was going through something at home, but it really wasn't. Mary had gone yesterday and the day before, and though they had "practiced," she'd pretty much been ignored on and off the field. It wasn't like she was a star player, nor a star personality. Only half the team knew her name all the time. The others simply pretended her name was 'M' - for the sake of not allowing the other team to figure out who she was. And Mary didn't even want to get into her classes. Work was brighter. Nothing could really be dull as a waitress, but she'd just gotten yelled at by her boss, so that wasn't exactly fun, either.

At the guitar man's comment, the blonde tilted her head curiously. He said he didn't sing. Not that he couldn't. She'd noticed - through paying attention to her crazy AP psychology - that the contractions people use actually explained what they weren't saying. The blonde considered asking him about it, but the guy had already started strumming his guitar - such beautiful music - like she'd asked him to. Of course, she still ended up interrupting him, but this time it was more.... mannerly. Her pink flush from the run was starting to fade as the guitar man introduced himself and shook her proffered hand. Mary's face broke into a smile of delight. Inside, she was practically screaming. She hadn't scared the guy - Patrick - off.

She'd creeped him out, but she creeped out the people who knew her.

Laughing lightly just to laugh, Mary grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I jump to conclusions. Do you play your guitar all day, then? Because that sounds mighty boring..." Mary's voice drifted off as she glanced around her and at her watch. She still had no need to hurry. She might miss making a few tips, but it was worth it finding a new friend. Thinking back to her previous question, Mary tilted her head curiously and looked down hopefully at Patrick. "You said you don't sing, right? That means you still can. You just don't want to. I'll sing with you if you play a song I know. I love singing, though I doubt I'd ever sound as good as your guitar." Mary shrugs off-handedly. "Besides, I don't have to be at work for ages... OH. I work at the diner. So, if you sing, I could give you discounted dinners." The blonde grinned wickedly.

No one could refuse an offer for a cheaper meal. Especially people that looked like they should be in college.

[/height]

teenage dreams in a teenage circus
running around like a clown on purpose
who gives a darn about the family you come from
no giving up when you're young and you want some