Post by kestrelbyrne on Jan 22, 2009 0:48:51 GMT -5
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dive right in, let the wires get wet,
everyone needs a little S P A R K
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It was the weekend and there was little to be done. Her homework finished, half done or missing in action, Kestrel was hard put to find something else to fill in the long hours that awaited her. Sitting on the wooden floor of her dorm surrounded by askew clothes, books and other titbits, she nibbled absentmindedly on her lip and taped her chin with a finger. Glancing about her small part of the dorm she wondered as to whether she should tidy up as was everyday suggested to her by her roommates but the effort of even thinking about it was tiring.
All of a sudden something caught her gaze. It was a small weaved box; the box held nothing but a handful of old paint brushes, many of which were brittle and in terrible condition. But nevertheless a splendid idea hit her across the forehead and blinking startled she slapped herself out of it, before scrambling to her feet.
Scooping up her little paint box, a couple of small canvases and the plastic lid she used as her palette, she dashed for the door and sprinted down the stairs. The common room was full of people; some were studying, others whispering amongst their friends and others, or rather a small group of boys who were trying to bewitch some of the girl’s skirts. Ignoring her fellow gryf’s she kicked down the entrance and hoping into the hallway.
Remembering suddenly that she had forgotten something she put all her things to one side in the hallway before running back up to her dorm. Her muggle music player was lying forgotten on her bed amongst a pile of stripped socks. Grabbing the player she flew back downstairs, cramming her earphones over her ears and cranking up the music as she went. Gathering her things to her that had still been sitting untouched in the hallway she made her way to the second floor, bouncing, dancing and twirling down the staircases on the way.
Upon reaching her destination; the out-of-order girls bathroom of which had for years been haunted by an gloomy old ghost by the name of Myrtle, she glanced about the corridor to make sure she wasn’t seen before slipping into her musky and somewhat damp hideaway.
Grinning to herself, she set up her gear on the floor before beginning to mix her paints. Kestrel had never been very good at drawing real life objects and so had stuck to drawing whatever came to mind. Her canvas balanced on one of the many sinks; of which she used as easels – they didn’t work after all, she dipped her healthiest paint brush into a droplet of hot pink and began creating.
Bright colours had always been to her taste and because she disagreed with white, she often painted all her canvases black before beginning to actually paint. Much like the way she dressed her painting was an array of loud colours screaming out from a background of black. While she painted she danced [or as much as one can dance while painting]. Music rang in her ears and brought out inspiration she usually lacked.
Front somewhere to her left the light breeze brought with it a gurgling noise which when it reached Kestrels ears caused her to grin wickedly. Glancing off toward one of the toilet cubicles she breathed in before raising her voice.
“You gonna come annoy me today Myrt?” she said loudly, waiting for the melancholy response from her friend. Myrtle had been very hostile toward her the first few times Kest had interrupted her miserable peace but soon after the ghost girl had come to tolerate the aspiring artist’s presence. Kest waited in vain. No response came from the u-bend. Rolling her eyes and tossing her head; Myrtle was probably off sulking where else. Slightly disappointed that she would remain alone for the time being she occupied herself with her paints and music.
Already she was filthy; dust and paint in her hair and over her clothes. If anyone were to invade her privacy now they would most probably die of laughter upon seeing her. The thought of such an incident tickled Kest throat with amusement although she would never wish death upon anyone. Shaking her mane she pumped up her music even louder until it would be impossible for her to hear anything let alone Myrtle’s appearance and busied herself in her half done painting. Feet tapping, hips swinging she hummed happily to herself watching her canvas transform in front of her very eyes; her very hazel eyes.