[color=blue] Well, hi.

The piece that follows is one of my weirdest works - high-flown and on the philosiphical side. I really want some feedback on it, as i want to know if i'm any good at this sort of writing. Moreover, if there is anything that points me out as a non-native English speaker i really want to hear about it. So, here goes ...[/color]

Practice Room Number Three had always been hers. She had not bothered to stick a label on its door, for it was not required. She was inextricably bonded with that little enclosure, and had been since she first entered Brookfield High. Everyone in school knew that no matter who you were or what you needed, Practice Room Number Three was out of bounds in her absence.

Only a select few were permitted to enter her private sanctum, and only one was allowed to remain for extended periods of time as and when he liked. As she grew up, Practice Room Number Three became synonymous with comfort, soft music, and sometimes a pair of protective arms to hold anyone who needed reassurance. Just one rule – never a word was spoken within its boundaries.

Most of the time she simply sat at the piano, playing a simple melody with one hand while the other supported her cheek. Sometimes she closed the instrument and used it as a table for her compositions, both written and musical. Often her friend would enter soundlessly, and let the music she made wash over him – sustaining him, showing him he would never be alone while she lived. That music had accompanied everything from his reveries to his pre-exam revision.

On rare occasions, the music would be slightly harsher than usual, a jarred note of pain breaking the fluid flow. When he beheld her thus, he would sit by her till she grew calm, or pick up the melody as she sought relief in silent tears.

Over the years, the number of people infiltrating her sanctum grew slowly. She remained unfazed, for few dared breach her privacy when her face bore anything other than a faraway look of content. And when she was content, why would she grudge anyone the happiness her music could give them?

Her dearest friends suffered losses, whose pain they momentarily forgot as they imbibed the serene stoicism that had always shown in her face. Even so, the harsh notes in the music grew more frequent, and it was often that the children seeking their “soul tonic” were forced to turn away.

Pain forced words from her friends, words which forced their way past the spirit of silent communion that was Practice Room Number Three. Together, she and her friend sang of love, death, parting, and bitterness. No words spoken other than those sung, but their hearts slowly mended by the music she jointly made. The music of love, parting, and, above all, life.

Today she enters Practice Room Number Three to find him waiting for her. He is sitting on the floor, knees to his chest, head in his arms. She knows he is devastated – his world has been shattered, just like hers was so many years ago. A twitch of her lip betrays her, as she walks towards the piano and begins to play. A simple melody, composed partly of her memories, and partly of her emotions from so long ago. Feelings that she has never put into words, even though it has been nearly a decade since she lost everything.

She remembers, and the tears fall on the ivory keys as she plays. She does not notice him rise, but a moment later she feels him kneel behind her.

He strikes a broken chord.

A gasp breaks from her as the melody she has so carefully constructed gets destroyed in an instant. It is then that she realise that he is simply continuing what she had begun – the story of their lives.

From then on, the melody soars higher. She can see the thunderclouds looming, and then the storm breaks… so much more than just a storm. His music is a story of conflict, against a world where humanity is slowly becoming scarce… where people like the two of them hide their scars and learn to move on. She wants him to stop – the harsh truth is rending her to the very core.

He feels her tremble, and lets the notes die out. When he touches the keys again, the tones are buoyant. The melody speaks of sunshine, the scent of flowers, and bliss. A promise of happiness to come, yet somehow tinged with melancholy, and something she cannot identify. A thread of a heartfelt emotion, which she knows she should recognise.

Then he plays the opening bars of one of her favourite airs, and she looks deep into his eyes – does he mean what she thinks he does? The two of she had listened to this together, and he had asked, “What does this mean? I cannot see it.”

She had looked into his eyes as she does now, and she had uttered one word.


Her fingers brush over his as four hands now continue to weave a joint melody, a perfect harmony amidst all the discord.
Um well, I posted this when I was a newbie to this site, but I'd still like a bit of feedback on it. Anyone volunteer? Plee-a-a-se?

- Joy.
Wow, I very much doubt that anybody will set about proofreading that very piece of work.
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I've already proofread it, but could someone please volunteer feedback? I'm fairly sure there aren't any spelling or grammatical mistakes in the passage, but I want to know how to improve it further.

- Joy