Post by Antonio Fernández Carriedo on Dec 28, 2011 16:37:03 GMT -5
(I don't own the characters or song 
“Flower gleam and glow…” a shakey, quiet voice speaks. The voice belongs to a small, skinny brunette teenager. He stands seemingly alone in a dark room, clutching a leather bound journal. His clothes are torn and splattered with dry blood.
“Let your power shine,” the boy speaks softly but with authority, staring off into the darkness. Moonlight from a small nearby window illuminates him. It is the only light visible.
“Make the clock reverse,” the boy looks to a small pile of broken clocks at his feet. His eyes waver, looking to what surrounds him on the wooden floor. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lifts his head up, almost leaning it back.
“Bring back what once was mine…”
He opens his eyes and looks back into the darkness around him. He is quiet for a moment, body heaving with desperate breaths. He speaks again.
“Heal what has been hurt,” the boy is at the brink of tears, his voice is strained.
“Change the fates design,” he takes a deep breath now, and squeezes his brown eyes shut, forcing a single tear out as he does so.
“S-save what has been l-lost,” he stutters, his voice cracking with the tears that are now running down his face more freely.
“Bring back what once was mine,” he breaks into a straggled sob, the tears running down his face, unrestrained. His head drops to hang limply.
“What once was mine…”
The dark room he is standing in lights up, as if someone has turned on the sun. What surrounds the brunette boy on the floor are bodies; bodies of his friends and family. They lay in a perfect circle around him, their heads point at his feet, their bloodied bodies lay on numbers, painted on the ground like a clock. He stands in the center. Italy stands, surrounded by the personifications of Romano, Spain, Germany, Japan, Canada, France, England, America, China, Russia and Prussia, their uniforms bloody and torn. The room continues to brighten, and a phantom wind blows, tossing the hair and clothes of the persons caught in its wake. Soon the room is too bright to see, to bright to even know up from down, left from right.
As suddenly as the light turns on, it turns off. It is now empty, the twelve persons it once held are gone. But they will be back. They will keep returning until the puzzle is solved. And only when the puzzle is solved.
Hours later, the sun has risen to its peak. The room is lit from the sun, no longer the moon. Outside, a familiar, though much happier voice calls, “There it is, Doitsu! Isn’t it shizzy?”
(inspired by www.youtube.com/watch?v=x60-3J8P7hk&feature=player_embedded)
“Flower gleam and glow…” a shakey, quiet voice speaks. The voice belongs to a small, skinny brunette teenager. He stands seemingly alone in a dark room, clutching a leather bound journal. His clothes are torn and splattered with dry blood.
“Let your power shine,” the boy speaks softly but with authority, staring off into the darkness. Moonlight from a small nearby window illuminates him. It is the only light visible.
“Make the clock reverse,” the boy looks to a small pile of broken clocks at his feet. His eyes waver, looking to what surrounds him on the wooden floor. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lifts his head up, almost leaning it back.
“Bring back what once was mine…”
He opens his eyes and looks back into the darkness around him. He is quiet for a moment, body heaving with desperate breaths. He speaks again.
“Heal what has been hurt,” the boy is at the brink of tears, his voice is strained.
“Change the fates design,” he takes a deep breath now, and squeezes his brown eyes shut, forcing a single tear out as he does so.
“S-save what has been l-lost,” he stutters, his voice cracking with the tears that are now running down his face more freely.
“Bring back what once was mine,” he breaks into a straggled sob, the tears running down his face, unrestrained. His head drops to hang limply.
“What once was mine…”
The dark room he is standing in lights up, as if someone has turned on the sun. What surrounds the brunette boy on the floor are bodies; bodies of his friends and family. They lay in a perfect circle around him, their heads point at his feet, their bloodied bodies lay on numbers, painted on the ground like a clock. He stands in the center. Italy stands, surrounded by the personifications of Romano, Spain, Germany, Japan, Canada, France, England, America, China, Russia and Prussia, their uniforms bloody and torn. The room continues to brighten, and a phantom wind blows, tossing the hair and clothes of the persons caught in its wake. Soon the room is too bright to see, to bright to even know up from down, left from right.
As suddenly as the light turns on, it turns off. It is now empty, the twelve persons it once held are gone. But they will be back. They will keep returning until the puzzle is solved. And only when the puzzle is solved.
Hours later, the sun has risen to its peak. The room is lit from the sun, no longer the moon. Outside, a familiar, though much happier voice calls, “There it is, Doitsu! Isn’t it shizzy?”
(inspired by www.youtube.com/watch?v=x60-3J8P7hk&feature=player_embedded)
