A snippet from some of my writing
I've had a lot of fun showing some of my writing this week, and talking about my characters. So much so, that I wanted to solicit some feedback on one scene in the sequel to SLIPSTREAM. I hope you don't mind. Please don't feel obligated to read it. If you do, I ask that you please press play on the embedded video first because the music of Chopin really inspired me to write this piece, and it's classical music so you can read and listen at the same time. :)
Jordan checked behind him and saw no one. "Myd?" he whispered, not wishing to make toomuch noise. His eyes darted in everydirection from underneath the shadow cast by the bill from the hockey cap. He strained to hear anything, but he heard nofootfalls. A wind chime sounded itsghostly music on the far side of an open window.He turned around and admired the baby grand;it called to him. He'd never playedanything other than a guitar and most of that had been done on a game for theSony Playstation 3. He didn't understandthe compulsion that he felt to touch it; to run his fingers over the whitelacquer, to press its keys. His Adam'sapple bobbed under the smooth white skin of his throat, and he walked over,reached out with the fingers of his right hand, and gently stroked the tops ofthem. He caressed them like he would alover. Wordlessly, Jordan moved thebench out, took a seat, and started pressing the keys as musical notes tookroot in his mind. He played Nocturne Opus 9 No. 2 by FredericChopin. He'd heard it before but hadnever played it, never dreamed of playing it, and suddenly he was able to do soas if he'd practiced it all of his life.His fingers flew over the keys, pressing themin tune as if directed by a ghostly consciousness. He closed his eyes, feeling the music risearound him like a warm, soothing blanket. On the ephemeral wings of the Nocturne's slow and exquisite rhythm,Jordan saw the sun drenched parlor of the home as it appeared in all seasons ofthe year. In the sparkling clear notesfrom the piano, he saw a man that looked much like him playing at the exquisiteinstrument. He was in his mid-twenties,blond, slender of build, wearing a blue denim jacket almost identical to theone he wore now.Jordan lost track of time, playing the keys,long narrow fingers flying over them, eyes flitting back and forth as ifreading invisible sheet music. Behindhim, Myddrin entered the room, observing him at the piano. Next to her, stood a tall man whose age laybetween sixty and seventy. He wore plaidpants, leather shoes, and his hair appeared as white as new snow. He had a mustache and pale green eyes. He looked on Jordan with fascination as theteenager played the piano, fingers finding keys that had been neglected foryears. It was haunting and beautiful tohear the music once again, for he'd heard it before…played from a heart thatcherished the sound in the same way that Chopin had cherished Nocturne. And then the strangest thing happened—Jordanbegan to cry. Tears welled up andstreamed down his cheeks but he continued unfaltering, fingers guided by aghost from his past—by someone that loved him more than his own life.When he finished, Jordan sat there in completesilence, blond eyelashes restrained tears with nothing but surface tension,fully aware that Myd and a stranger watched him. But he couldn't move as his mind raced. Jordan thought the unthinkable. A single tear fell from his chin and broke onthe piano. "My father played this," hesaid. "My dad played this every singleday, right here, in this spot.""—Jordan," the man said at last. His voice fell upon his ears like thicksyrup.He turned and looked at the speaker standingthere next to Myddrin. He respectfullystood and removed his hockey cap and held it in his hands. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I don't know what came over me—.""It's all right, son" the man stated. "I haven't heard Chopin played like thatsince your father played it for me—as you'd guessed already—almost eighteenyears ago."
I have always had a fondness for Chopin. I hope you liked this snippet.
Jordan checked behind him and saw no one. "Myd?" he whispered, not wishing to make toomuch noise. His eyes darted in everydirection from underneath the shadow cast by the bill from the hockey cap. He strained to hear anything, but he heard nofootfalls. A wind chime sounded itsghostly music on the far side of an open window.He turned around and admired the baby grand;it called to him. He'd never playedanything other than a guitar and most of that had been done on a game for theSony Playstation 3. He didn't understandthe compulsion that he felt to touch it; to run his fingers over the whitelacquer, to press its keys. His Adam'sapple bobbed under the smooth white skin of his throat, and he walked over,reached out with the fingers of his right hand, and gently stroked the tops ofthem. He caressed them like he would alover. Wordlessly, Jordan moved thebench out, took a seat, and started pressing the keys as musical notes tookroot in his mind. He played Nocturne Opus 9 No. 2 by FredericChopin. He'd heard it before but hadnever played it, never dreamed of playing it, and suddenly he was able to do soas if he'd practiced it all of his life.His fingers flew over the keys, pressing themin tune as if directed by a ghostly consciousness. He closed his eyes, feeling the music risearound him like a warm, soothing blanket. On the ephemeral wings of the Nocturne's slow and exquisite rhythm,Jordan saw the sun drenched parlor of the home as it appeared in all seasons ofthe year. In the sparkling clear notesfrom the piano, he saw a man that looked much like him playing at the exquisiteinstrument. He was in his mid-twenties,blond, slender of build, wearing a blue denim jacket almost identical to theone he wore now.Jordan lost track of time, playing the keys,long narrow fingers flying over them, eyes flitting back and forth as ifreading invisible sheet music. Behindhim, Myddrin entered the room, observing him at the piano. Next to her, stood a tall man whose age laybetween sixty and seventy. He wore plaidpants, leather shoes, and his hair appeared as white as new snow. He had a mustache and pale green eyes. He looked on Jordan with fascination as theteenager played the piano, fingers finding keys that had been neglected foryears. It was haunting and beautiful tohear the music once again, for he'd heard it before…played from a heart thatcherished the sound in the same way that Chopin had cherished Nocturne. And then the strangest thing happened—Jordanbegan to cry. Tears welled up andstreamed down his cheeks but he continued unfaltering, fingers guided by aghost from his past—by someone that loved him more than his own life.When he finished, Jordan sat there in completesilence, blond eyelashes restrained tears with nothing but surface tension,fully aware that Myd and a stranger watched him. But he couldn't move as his mind raced. Jordan thought the unthinkable. A single tear fell from his chin and broke onthe piano. "My father played this," hesaid. "My dad played this every singleday, right here, in this spot.""—Jordan," the man said at last. His voice fell upon his ears like thicksyrup.He turned and looked at the speaker standingthere next to Myddrin. He respectfullystood and removed his hockey cap and held it in his hands. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "I don't know what came over me—.""It's all right, son" the man stated. "I haven't heard Chopin played like thatsince your father played it for me—as you'd guessed already—almost eighteenyears ago."
I have always had a fondness for Chopin. I hope you liked this snippet.
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