I actually have a few blog post ideas, buuuuuuut I don't have time to write them until after NaNo. (I don't have time to go see Endgame until after NaNo either, so boo.) I'm soooooooo close, though. In the meantime, have a snippet.
Carla’s fingers danced over the smooth piano keys, spilling forth a Bach invention into the empty music room. Mrs. Hartwell, the school’s head music teacher, had procured a braille copy for her, but Carla still preferred to learn by ear. She felt the music more that way. It flowed through her soul.
The invention finished, she plunged into her own variation of “Amazing Grace.” It delighted Mrs. Hartwell to hear Carla’s variations, and she’d encouraged Carla to write her own song entirely. Carla wasn’t ready for that, any more than she was ready to do without her older sister. She didn’t know how to live without someone to lean on.
Somehow, “Amazing Grace” morphed into “Let It Go”—she was proud of her versatility, though her more classically trained contemporaries sometimes poked fun.
And that’s when she first felt it, like a shadow passing over her soul. The hair on her arms prickled, and she was cold. There was a presence. She couldn’t say just what it was. All she knew was that it was evil.
The voice was inside her, not even necessarily inside her mind, but simply a part of her.
The room was silent; no sound touched her eardrums. Yet the voice persisted from somewhere deep inside her.
She stood up quickly, the piano stool crashing against the floor, something falling on the keyboard creating a cacophony of notes. The presence vanished, creating a vacuum not quite physical inside of her.
The door clicked and swung open. Emma’s presence filled the room, calm and soothing.
“Car? What’s wrong?”
Carla drew a deep breath and picked up her book bag. “Nothing. Why would something be wrong?”
She could feel Emma’s skepticism even before she spoke.
“You aren’t playing.”
“I’m ready to go.” She headed towards Emma’s voice, stumbling and nearly falling over the piano stool. Hands reached out to steady her. Two pairs of hands. “Hi, Grace.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Grace asked.
“Positive.” Whatever had happened, it was over now. She didn’t need to worry about it. Perhaps it had even just been her imagination. Yes, she’d imagined it. She did have a vivid imagination.