Practice Makes Me Perfect

by Forn Clakes Sun Apr 26, 2009 8:45 am

The tune that rolled out of his lavish room was tinged with both sadness and joy, a harmony of contrasting characters that had become Pryderi’s life since being taken by his Keeper.

Drip, drip

Pryderi played the same note over and over, making sure the line between hope and loathing was on a knife’s edge.

Drip, drip went the fresh blood

The Muse thought of what his Keeper wished for; a song of pleasure and pain, of suffering and ecstasy, of all things divergent and conflicting.

Drip, drip went the fresh blood as it hit the floor

Looking to the instrument he played, Pryderi’s mouth opened in a silent scream and he froze in terror at the sight.

Drip, drip went the fresh blood as it hit the floor from the instrument in his hands

Pryderi held his own intestines in his hands, pulled taut like the strings of a harp.

Drip, drip went the fresh blood as it hit the floor from the instrument in his hands and pooled around his feet.

But, it did feel refreshing and innovative, and so he continued until he fainted.