Cora

Hers was not to reason why; Cora would happily do her bit and show Him her unwavering faith and devotion in the way she knew best. She’d raise the roof and crack the rafters before Cataclysm did. Divine music, delivered up to her Maker along a stream of flying notes, would drown out the fury of the storm, and what better piece to start with than an organ anthem by J.S.Bach.
It had galled Cora no end that the parson and the congregation were stone deaf to music that didn’t relate to the service and the strictures of their belief. On Sundays and mid-week prayer sessions, patient pessimism best described Cora’s faith, for the glorious hallelujahs were never heard, the thundering trumpet voluntaries held silent, the sounding brass muted, the organ pipes castrated, choked off before their time and in their prime. So constrained in performance were they, that a mouse could barely hear them from the close proximity of the church skirting boards. It wouldn’t be like that today, she’d play those pieces as she’d always wanted to do.