Call Me Picasso (Lin/Open)

[avie summons]

Some people were good with arts and crafts. Some people had a very steady hand, and could draw a straight line without a ruler. And some people could make beautiful portraits, whether it be still-drawn or from their mind as they had imagined it.

That was like Avie's best friend, back when he had lived in London. His friend could draw certain things beautifully, and sometimes it had gotten this particular child of Ares jealous, but then he had remembered he was grateful for a friend, especially a friend as wonderful as his, letting him stay with him because of his mother and her one-night-stands every other night.

Avie remembered questioning his friend one morning, while said friend had been drawing. 'Why a butterfly?' the raven had asked with a small smile. His friend had responded - without looking away from the lined paper he used - that butterflies were beautiful insects, with the ability to fly away from whichever place they had been with such ease... and how they were very pretty.

...And then there are some people who do not have a steady hand, and cannot draw a perfectly straight line without a ruler. Some people who could barely draw stick figures, and could most definitely not draw things from their mind, despite how beautiful they imagine that thing to be.

This category, Avie fell under.

Though, arts and crafts did not involve anything to do with nature ( well, at least, his arts and crafts ), or did it have anything to do with weaponry and his despicable father, so he found that he rather enjoyed working with paintbrushes and paper, even if he was horrible at doing so.

One doesn't have to be artistic to be 'okay' with a pencil, do they? Avie picked up the paintbrush in his left hand as if it were a foreign object, having never really liked writing or drawing because school forced him to do such things, though here he was not forced to do anything, and he rather missed school.

Green eyes flickered to the sketchpad he had exited the camp to buy, looking at the pages distastefully, already knowing that whatever he planned to draw would be horrible. Past pages shown pictures, but the gods be damned if he ever revealed them to anyone else in this camp - or in this world.

As he wet the paintbrush in a cup of water he had gotten from the nearby lake ( he was using water-paints, so why not use 'natural' water, though that lake was in New York, and little in New York was natural anymore ) and dipped the tip of his paintbrush into the black paint, he wondered about his mother, all the way back in her home, probably not even missing him as she desperately tried at her singing career. Of course, Avie never said that to her, and he didn't even truly believe that her career wouldn't lift off. She was his mother, and he found that he was able to manage to pity her because of what little money she made at the bar she most likely still worked at, at the house that always had dishes in the sink that Avie had been forced to do, and at the heartless way she acted because she probably didn't even have a heart.

...And yet, nothing would be able to live without a heart, would it?

That was something this seventeen year old would have to research, though, later on. For now, he was painting, drawing whatever his shaking hand ran across the paper, too caught up in his thoughts to worry about if everything and anything had to have a heart to live.

((notess; ...this is much more short than I would have wanted my first post. darn my writing. xD))

[heather kingston]

i'll dissolve when the rain pours in,
when the nightmares take me,

it was just one of those days. one of those days where heather felt like seeking quiet and dreams instead of doing all the 'exciting' things at camp. while she did enjoy riding the pegasi and helping with the strawberry fields, she didn't enjoy the fighting and training aspect as much, and had never mastered any weapon until recently. at the thought of it, heather's head flew together and she twisted the ring on her finger around uncomfortably. last year, on her fifteenth birthday, triton had finally gotten fed up of her lack of weaponry skills, so he'd given her this ring which, when thrown into the air, transformed into a triton. surprisingly, she had taken to fighting with it quite easily - strange compared to her lack of skill with any other weapon. although it had been six months, she still wasn't used to the idea of carrying a weapon around with her. it didn't make her feel safer. it just made her feel uneasy, afraid she might hurt someone by mistake.

heather sighed, looking down at the ring on her left hand as she thought about her father. when he'd given her the ring, it had only been the second time she had ever seen him. she knew he was busy, but there was a place inside her that ached with emptiness at the thought of him. she sighed again, shifting her gaze to the ocean instead. she had come down to the beach to sketch, but now as she gazed at the ocean, she felt none of that wonder and joy she usually felt, only sadness. heather watched as the waves crashed to the shore for a few more seconds before standing up and brushing the sand off of her body. she gathered her charcoal pencils which were strewn everywhere and her sketchbook with the half-finished drawing of the ocean, and she stuffed them both into the bag. without looking back at the sea, she started trudging across the beach towards the arts and crafts area, slinging her back over her shoulder. after the beach, it was her second favourite place to be.

she reached the arts and crafts area quickly where she was surprised to find someone sitting at one of the tables. it wasn't often that anyone came here unless they were here for their scheduled time, and right now was not supposed to be one of those times. as she reached the edge of the pavilion, she stopped, hesitant to disturb the boy who looked so into his work. she stood, half behind a column, watching him for a second as she thought, before she finally shook her head at herself. she had just as much right to be there as he did. she sidled over to a table, trying to be as silent as she could so as not to bother him. the girl slipped into a chair and quietly pulled her things out. looking around, she wasn't sure what to draw at first, but then her eye caught the boy who was still intent on his painting. for a moment heather hesitated, but then she picked up a pencil and began to draw.

she started slowly at first as she drew the outline of his face, her hand gliding along the paper lightly. she glanced up discretely at him for reference, but soon she got lost in her drawing. she hand began to move in quick strokes as she filled in the details and shading, and she looked more and more often, forgetting she might be being rude. she couldn't help it though. there were times when drawings just seemed to pour from her, and she couldn't help but get everything down on paper or she felt she would burst. on the outside, she might look like someone in a frenzy, but that wasn't what it felt like at all. inside her little bubble was only focus and calm.

i will scream with howling wind,
cause it's a bitter world and i'd rather dream.

[avie summons]

Avie had witnessed a lot of things in his life.

He thought this quietly as he continued to draw - what? He still didn't know. All he truly did know was that art did help him forget everything for just a little bit at that, and help him think better than silence did. Knowing that maybe one of these times he could draw something worthy of people seeing, it drove him on to continue drawing until perhaps he got better.

But every time it slapped him in the face with it's failure.


The raven could think now, in his mind, of how much he wanted to be thought of. To have at least one person look at him and feel proud of him. Most of this feeling was directed to his parents... with who, both, could care less about him. He ached for their attention, if not any at least a little, and their worry. Though they had their minds on more important things. Whether it be a singing career or - he shuddered - fighting.

He also thought how he wanted more friends.

He was selfish, wanting so little and yet such big things. He knew he had to have at least some friends, he was just too in-thought to remember them. He blamed himself and only himself for not even being able to remember what friends he might have had.

He only seemed to remember the important ones. And that was his best friend.

Home. The child of Ares, unsuspecting of being watched, lifted a hand and clutched at his heart through his shirt for a second, missing the rainy days he would spend in London, missing the actual changes in weather, missing his best friend and his school and his mother who still could probably care less. But he still didn't hold such nice feelings towards his mother. In fact, he would claim to hate her if anyone asked. But no one bothered to ask, because she never taught him how to socialize and how to not be awkward around boys and girls...

And then everything led back to her.

He sometimes blamed her in his conflicted ADD mind, and did it without a second doubt. Was he the only one doomed with a life to live with her? She was not bad; she fed him, was able to house him, clothe him, and yet he still selfishly yearned for more. Because he was selfish. Everyone was selfish, despite how selfless they acted, because everyone wanted, and wanted brought one to selfishness. He was selfish for a parent's simple care.

And yet he knew that if his father cared, Avie would only do more to achieve in 'peeving' him off.

The British boy pulled his hand back for a second only to dip it back into the black paint and swirl it around before lifting it back up and to the paper. Yes... maybe Avie was making him mad at this moment in time. Because Ares most likely wanted a son that could fight. Not a son who was a pacifist. Ares was selfish and wanted a son who was strong, not a son who was practically skin and bones...

And yet, Avie wished for him to care at least a little.

Green eyes fell half closed as he continued painting quietly, listening around him. He could just barely hear the waves washing upon the beach a couple ways away. He could also hear some birds, and, oddly, the sound of something scratching against the other.

Avie tensed, his hand instantly freezing as he glanced out of the corner of his eye to the left, and found someone there, drawing with a black pencil - charcoal, perhaps? Despite being so un-artistic, he knew some art terms - and glancing towards him every so often.

...Had she been here long?

He continued to stare at her out of the corner of his eye until finally his head hurt, and he looked back at his own horrible portrait, feeling his face practically burn with embarrassment. Had she seen? He desperately hoped not; anything he did was horrible, at least when drawing. He was not one hundred percent perfect. He was... a selfish boy who could not draw.

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, trying to push his thoughts away from the random girl and her obvious drawing of him - or maybe it was something behind him? Though, she could have asked him to move if that were so... - and back to his art. He came here to be stress free. He knew that everytime he did come here, he had the chance of not being alone.

...That was the thing. Everytime he arrived to someone already here, he would turn on heels and head straight back to his cabin.

Finally he calmed down, relaxing his tense muscles, and focused back on painting, a soft sigh making it's way into Avie's constricted schedule. Being the unarticulated one he was, he would suppress his discomfort of someone else here while he was drawing, and simply ignore them.

Her. Ignore her.

notess;; i am glad someone wants to post here!