The Piano

The piano stood in the middle of the forest, creaking gently. Dry leaves lay restlessly on the ground, coated in a thin layer of frost. The ground was uneven, pockmarked with bumps and dips which gradually grew and deepened with time, lying in wait to trip an unwary walker. Trees looked on in a perfect circle, guarding this moment in time; this unchanged moment, from the choas that encircled it. The trees grew tall and thin, branchless and leafless, simply growing up in a hope to catch a glimmer of sunlight. Sunlight didn't often penetrate this place. Instead the place was chill, ice dusting everything that lay in the parameter and sucking the colour from the lifeless plants. Grey seeped into everything, infecting the trees, the leaves, the hard soil. Colour had no right to be here; it was a pocket of time that had aged just like the photographs. The piano was the only brightness. It grew like a parasite in the centre of the clearing; no right to be there, although entirely wanted. The wood was a deep mahogany, tinged slightly green by moss and dew, while the keys had long since lost their ivory white. It had no top, instead a gaping hole revealed a labyrinth of strings and hammers, aching to flex their static joints and move. For that was its purpose. Even here, an isolated clearing, the piano craved its purpose. As did the trees, bending slightly closer each day in the hope of hearing a faint trickle of music emerge once more.

Reviews

[JC]

I enjoyed this. Short and very descriptive. My only critique is that I would break it down to a few paragraphs.

I bid you much success. 🙂