The Whian Whian
Photograph by Laura Helle
I feel as though I must go back up the hill to the house. A cloud just crested the mountains. It means Mike is on his way, I am sure of it. The clouds will continue to build throughout the morning as he approaches. I must go up to the house. I want to see if the piano still makes music …
Up at the house now. The heavy wooded vines have created a dark vestibule, as though it was intended … aha, I am inside. Upright piano, festooned with cobwebs, mould blooming on its surface like the lesions of some unthinkable plague. In here it is night. Outside, the clouds are expanding, spreading in all directions to cover the late morning sky. He will be here soon. Mustn’t delay …
I’m sitting in the dank, dark parlour, fingers resting on keys that were once
