what she does well

One of you asked what Eldest does well. Here is a part of a story she is writing . . . (she'd kill me if she knew I was posting this but it's how I'll figure out if she's watching this blog).

Maybe I'm just a proud mommy (a/k/a one of the most annoying creatures alive), but I like it:

Regan carelessly glanced outside, then doubled back, saying “It’s snowing.” Aidan laughed. “That tends to happen in winter, dear.” Regan pursed her lip, saying “But it’s the FIRST snow!” she was still facing the window, staring outside. “But…you hate the cold, Regan.” He said, almost as if he were reminding her. “I know that. I love the way snow looks. It’s inspiring. I wrote a song about it, once.” Aidan raised an eyebrow, and went over to her, wrapping his arms around her. “You have, have you? Could you be prodded to remember said song for me?” He asked, teasingly. “C’mon. I wrote it down.” She wriggled in his grip, but he laughed and didn’t let go. “Aidan!” She laughed “C’mon.” He laughed again, and let her go, following her in to the music room. When Regan had gotten as good as she was, and wrote music, her parents built her a special room. The room was soundproofed, had a small recording device, and a macG5 that held her music programs. Her silver Lyric Flute stood on its stand in the corner, as if it were waiting for her. Regan went to a small box of folders, pulling out a small folder, and opening it. She pulled out a taped together section of pages, and unfolded them. “Flute part.” She noted, setting it on the large stand. The music was 5 pages long. Regan grabbed the silver flute, quickly going up and down the scales, and launched into The Four Seasons Spring Movement, as her warm-up song. She glanced up, and laughed. Aidan was still standing, in the corner. “Sit.” She commanded, pointing to a desk chair. He shook his head, and sat in the chair. “You ready?” She asked, he nodded, and she started.

At first, a single, low, clear note. Slowly, other notes intertwined themselves, quiet grace notes, slow trills, little, fast trills, and triplets. It DID sound like a snow sprinkling was starting. Her fingers moved, as the flute’s lower octave sang. Suddenly a middle octave trill rang through, as the storm intensified. She quickly ran down a scale, and instantly was back up, the middle to high octave ringing in quick sixteenths. More grace notes wound in. You could hear the snow, now. It was as if it were real, with the lower sound like a wind, and the upper the flakes falling, dancing their quick, joyful, chaotic dance. The song slowed to eerie low sounds, like a cold wind echoing though the frozen land. Small sounds started again, as if the snow was sprinkling itself again, given up its rage. One more, quick, fast, loud trill and a scale fading down, the lowest trill possible ending the song.

It was eerily silent in the room. Regan looked up, worried at the response. Aidan sat, his mouth wide open. “Wow.” Regan’s face relaxed and she took a deep breath. “Yea. I put the entire thing, with all the parts, into the computer.” She said, clicking around on it. iTunes popped up, and she double clicked on a song. It was amazing. More than the single flute, though it held the melody. The strings held an amazing melody, violins winding a complex counter-melody, and cellos and viola’s providing the undertones, soft reminders of the gentleness of snow. Woodwinds accompanied the flute. There was no brass. The percussion was a major part of the piece. Key-board instruments flew in and out, bass drum gave a soft throbbing beat, and wind chime and triangle added to the magic of the song. At the climax of the storm, and timpani rolled, and faded. Aidan shook his head. “When did you write that?” She thought. “A year or two ago? The viola and violin part is live. I multiplied my self for the viola, and Alyson did the violin for me.”