Melodies in the Air
Maisie squrried into the room quickly, ducking her head, her right hand thrust in her robe pocket, fingering her flute. The flute was hers. The one her grandmother gave her on her 4th birthday. It was dark, made of mahogany, and smelt like fireplaces. She had used that flute nearly everyday for the past 7 years, much to the annoyance of her brothers, but to the delight of the guests of their parents.
She went to a corner, sat down on the floor, and began. It was a simple tune, one that her grandmother had taught her three summers ago. It was a tune full of memories. Her parents, her brothers and sisters, home, books, spring, flowers, plants... She missed all of hem so much. Then she started quickening the speed, and, after the tune was finished, she didn't stop playing the flute, instead, she added more verses. The notes bled into music, it turned her bottled-up feelings since arrival into music, into something so beautiful for such morbid and sad thoughts, as she had. Her verses were inspired by random things, things that popped into her ming. One that was inspired by this room. The high ceilings and shining floors, the emptyness; another that was based on a folktale, that had to do with a castle school; one that was a verse her mother had taught on a memorable Christmas, she added a bridge and another verse before she began to slow down, until the notes faded, and became silence.
She didn't realize she was standing, and she sat back down, letting the flute fall to her lap. She sniffled, wipes her nose, and looked around.
Still empty.
But she felt goosebumps.
Someone was here...
She went to a corner, sat down on the floor, and began. It was a simple tune, one that her grandmother had taught her three summers ago. It was a tune full of memories. Her parents, her brothers and sisters, home, books, spring, flowers, plants... She missed all of hem so much. Then she started quickening the speed, and, after the tune was finished, she didn't stop playing the flute, instead, she added more verses. The notes bled into music, it turned her bottled-up feelings since arrival into music, into something so beautiful for such morbid and sad thoughts, as she had. Her verses were inspired by random things, things that popped into her ming. One that was inspired by this room. The high ceilings and shining floors, the emptyness; another that was based on a folktale, that had to do with a castle school; one that was a verse her mother had taught on a memorable Christmas, she added a bridge and another verse before she began to slow down, until the notes faded, and became silence.
She didn't realize she was standing, and she sat back down, letting the flute fall to her lap. She sniffled, wipes her nose, and looked around.
Still empty.
But she felt goosebumps.
Someone was here...