GENRE: Upper MG, Fantasy
It was a dark and stormy night.
Tom's handwriting wriggled along the top of the cream colored page like a family of worms on a picnic. Sally longed to hug Tom who chewed the end of his pen and stared at the nearly empty, sheet of paper.
She bent over his shoulder. "You shouldn't start like that."
"But it was dark. And stormy. Some summer nights are like that." Tom wiped his forehead leaving a smudge of ink on his bronze skin. Sally suppressed the urge to wipe it away.
"You should begin with my death. Or with the reason why we live in a tiny room in a stranger's house." She floated around, looking at the few belongings Tom had brought from home. Why was there so little? She turned and watched her brother.
He replaced the cartridge in his fountain pen and didn't look at her. "I'm not like you. I never put my shoes on before my jeans."
Sally laughed. Before her death, her laughter would have moved the wind chimes over the window. Now, it barely reached her own ears. She cocked her head when Tom blinked away a tear. Why was he so sad? She walked to the middle of his table and bent down. That way, he should be able to better see her freckled face with the wide grin. Worried she gazed at him as he squeezed his eyes shut. Why did he behave so strange?