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Post by HILLARY BRADFORD on Jul 16, 2010 16:38:58 GMT -5
  Hillary sat on one of the numerous cool stone benches that were scattered throughout the museum. The loved this place. She loved the reverent quiet that was always hanging in the halls as people shuffled from piece to piece, never murmering anything over a quiet "ooh" or "ah" before continuing onward.
It was so much better, safer and quieter than either school or her home. No, it was more than that. The house she was forced to sleep at during the night was not her home, THIS was her home. Here in the silence, surrounded by the great works of art, the children of countless masterminds that had left their mark on the world with paint and paper.
She sat in front of her favorite painting. An island composed solely out of soulful oil paints. Sure, it was fuzzy and you couldn't make out every detail as a crystal clear edge, but the softness made it more appealing. You could use your imagination to take in the beauty of the warm colors.
Hillary looked at it, and she was able to forget everything else for a moment. She was able to forget crying at home in the night, silently so her father couldn't hear, weeping in pain after being struck. She was able to forget WANTING to cry more than anything else when Carly Grant made a rude comment to her, or disfigured her own art. Most importantly, she was able to forget about being shattered inside when she saw Kale in the hallways, ignoring her as he went along with his perfect girlfriend.
As she took in the painting, she could almost see an outline on the shores of the painting that had never been there before. An almost unnoticeable form of a woman on the island paradise, all alone.  |
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Post by CAYLEEN KNIGHT on Jul 19, 2010 2:56:22 GMT -5
In the past half hour, all Cayleen had said was "ooh" and "ahh." The museum wasn't somewhere she went often (she was usually to busy volunteering or working), but it sure was peaceful. If there was thing Cayleen loved, it was an atmosphere of peace and quiet. The paintings were nice, too, of course. A few had caught her eye, the titles of which she had scribbled down in her notebook. She planned to look them up online later and, if she were to find them, maybe even print them out and put them up on her wall. Cayleen's feet were beginning to hurt and she was glad to have worn sensible shoes. Already, she'd seen a few women in heels who were resting on the stone benches throughout the museum. Didn't they know that those deathtraps weren't good for long periods of walking and standing? It was a bit amusing and she was proud at the fact that all she owned were flat-soled shoes.
Cayleen turned into another part of the museum and saw that these paintings had a complete different mood about them. She wasn't quite sure if this was the right term, but these ones just seemed like the opposite of what she'd seen so far. It was interesting. She continued through this area, saying as she had before "ooh" and "ahh." Cayleen paused, recognizing first the framed painting of an island, and noticing next the girl sitting on the bench in front of it. The painting was something familiar simply because the very girl staring at it drew something like it all the time. Cayleen didn't speak to Hillary on a daily basis but she did attempt a friendly conversation with her often enough. Often enough, anyway, to sit beside her now and strike up said friendly conversation. "Hey Hillary," she murmured, keeping her voice down. It was a museum after all. "How are you?"
word count ; 300ish
notes ; yeah i got bored with photofunia and i
wanted a neat little banner thing.
outfit ; blah
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