At the Strand of Nightmares

Don't Mind This.... It is Only Two Super Caddy Russian Bois

xTheWindsOfTimex I think we've discussed this idea before XD

So, this story is, believe it or not, heavily rooted in fact... until I get to the part where I...

e L a B o R a T e

All you need to know before you read this story is this:
1. Alexander Scriabin is a pretty lit composer whom, at the time this story is supposed to take place, just died.
2. This is an actual quote of Prokofiev's, "Rachmaninoff- well, I'd rather say nothing about him. The truth is we hated each other's guts."
3. This whole story should be in Russian, TBH. My Russian just isn't that good, yet! XD
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November- 1915

There's nothing quite like the sound at the ending of a concert to determine the worth of the overall performance. The look of an audience was essential, too. They'd either be with whitewashed eyes of wonder or stone cold expressions of plain confusion. Sometimes, it seemed, little needed to be even be said of a performer before the looks of an entire audience could be in that perfect, whitewashed state.

Who would have anticipated the whole of the faces of Russia, then, to be staring stone cold at one of its heroes, whose only job was to honor another?

It was right after one rather publicized concert in honor of the late Alexander Scriabin when, rather then there being a pleased sentiment, there was rather a feeling of disappointment, if not anger over some near-sacrilege being committed.

"Excuse me, sir?" a little reporter said, going up to one of the more recognizable faces leaving the concert hall, "Are you the Sergei Prokofiev?"

The young man turned around, not too terribly surprised to see one of these figures writhing about at the concert hall. "I am."

"What do you think happened in there with Mr. Rachmaninoff? That's not nearly what anyone expected the reaction to be?"

Sergei thought for a long moment, carefully considering what to say. He remembered what the reaction was, he'd just seen it! All of those loyal lovers of Scriabin becoming absolutely flushed at the sound of Rachmaninoff interpreting Scriabin's pieces in his own, quite different, style, *["Though we are accustomed to the composer's interpretation, perhaps there are other ways of playing this work."]*

The reporter nodded his head, pleased with his finding, "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Prokofiev." At that, he bobbed his head up and down a few times in satisfaction before turning around and finally scuttling away.

Sergei Sergeevich shrugged his shoulders before finally turning around to go back to his home, as naturally, he'd be having places to be tomorrow, too.
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The Following Afternoon

Rachmaninoff couldn't help but scoff at this entire news story. "Oh, isn't this lovely? 'Other ways' Natalya? 'Other ways?' What kind of backhanded compliment is that?"

Rachmaninoff's wife, Natalya, felt an odd mixture of amusement and sympathy for her poor husband. He was always so.... sensitive.... "I really don't believe that it was meant with any sort of bad intent, dear. Just... let it-,"

"I can't just let it go, Natalya!" Sergei muttered over her. "You don't know this Prokofiev kid. He doesn't mean well, that's the thing. He's always out to upstage everyone else. He's nothing but a, a.... Oh, never mind that. He just doesn't mean well!"

Natalya sighed, looking downward, "If you say so."

"Just trust me on this," Sergei said, clearly coming further into thought. "Oh well, I do believe I'll be seeing him tonight, anyhow. Let's see what he has to say to my face."

Natalya basically was internally face palming at this point.

And Later that Night...

Sergei Prokofiev was just about to enter the room where he knew Rachmaninoff and the other various composers, artists, and the like where all gathering. It was certainly going to be a....chilly.... affair, and he knew that.

Darn tootin' Prokofiev knew it. He was a smart Russian boi!

Anyways, just as Prokofiev entered, there was the six and a half foot scowl himself, Sergei Vasilyevich Rachmaninoff. Prokofiev cleared his throat as he approached the taller, older figure, "Privet, Mr. Rachmaninoff."

Rachmaninoff, a little taken aback by the quickness of this anticipated greeting, replied, "Dobryy Vecher, Prokofiev."

Prokofiev cleared his throat once again, much to Rachmaninoff's irritation, and then said, "I can't believe it... all of this negative criticism you've been receiving."

No reply from the other party as the two of them moved along.

*[Entering the artists' room, Prokofiev was still clearly continuing his thoughts as he spoke to Rachmaninoff, "And yet, Sergei Vasilyevich, you played very well." 

Rachmaninoff smiled acidly, "And you probably thought I'd play badly?" and he turned away to someone else.]*

Prokofiev coughed in frustration. "Well, how about that."

Then, out of no where, a pale as fuck, dark haired teenage girl came from around the corner, and she came over and patted Prokofiev on the shoulder, "It's okay, Seryi. He's probably just in a bad mood."

Prokofiev jumped in surprise, "Who are you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Well, I don't care what that conceited man thinks of me, either! I hate him as much as he hates me!"

"Oh, well, okay, then..." and, of course, the teenage girl rolled her eyes in frustration, continuing to walk out, "Damn composers..." she mumbled to herself.
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*[]* these segments are either paraphrased or direct quotes from Prokofiev's autobiography.

Obviously, the teenage girl is me XD I can't believe I inserted myself in this.

But yeah, I've had this piece of crap as an unfinished draft since January or something. And now you get to read this crap XD