Grey Days

You guys ready for a spot of fiction? I know, I should go away and leave the blog entirely to Mackenzie.... But I so enjoy writing ridiculous little nothings. And yes, comments are welcomed, even critical ones as long as they're not sarcastic, and the more particular you can be the better. Feel free to copy & past into an e-mail and make running comments if necessary.

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The piano sat comfortably in the corner, dusted with care, although the rest of the room was a wreck.

She practically ran over to it, dumping purse and backpack by the door, paying no attention to the answering machine's flickering light or the dirty dishes in the sink. Breakfast dishes - from last week. On her way she rapidly, with an almost panicked air, hung up her raincoat and switched on the lights. They illuminated the grey rain on the window and the clutter on the floor; couch covered in books, desk covered in papers - stories begun and never ended.

She flipped up the lid, running her hands lightly and lovingly across the keys. They were well used and chipped in some places. Other keys carried the marks of a former owner's child - permanent marker. Her frown eased, and she collapsed onto the bench, worries sliding off her shoulders like the rain running down the windows. Grey days are perfect for music.

Slowly, reverently she pressed the first key, letting its peace hang in the air a moment before moving on to the next. She began with a scale, letting the familiar notes come without thought. The soft vibrations under her fingers calmed her. Her breathing slowed, haste receded, and all was right with the world.

She ran through scales, arpeggios, and on to the more rigorous emotional release of the concertos. They flowed out, the well-practiced expressions given new passion by the traumatic day. She finished the last concerto and moved on to her favorite part of practice. The part where she just thought, and for every thought there came a note. Every color, every nuance of light, was translated into music. Sometimes no music came, and that was frustrating - after working for a bit she would go back to Mozart, or Beethoven, settling unwillingly for the music of others. Sometimes, like today, the notes came easily enough. It only took a little searching to find the earthly echoes of her heart's song. She played grey soft light, she played embracing wet, she plaed on as the rain fell from dark weeping clouds.

If she had any articulate thought, it amounted to little. Only, "This is life, this is love, this is passion, this is the only thing worth working for and worth facing every day for. Blast the landlord, blast Mrs. Pierce, and blast violinists! This is breathing, this is soul-song."