The Canary Speaks
The old writer, Mr. Kelly, sat hunkered down in his study at his desk, staring through the window at the rain. The harsh rain fell in battering sheets, flooding the yard and pounding the windows and roof. The sound was deafening, invading his exhausted ears as he tried to work--searching aimlessly for the words in his overworked brain to add to his latest short story. Staring at the paper with bloodshot eyes, he was neither awake nor asleep, and he tugged at his grey chin-whiskers, wide-eyed, in a deep trance. His long, ghost-like hair draped like straw down to his shoulders, and the halls of his cabin sat deathly quiet, aside from the ticking grandfather clock in the hall. During the times of his occasional insomnia, Mr. Kelly needed silence--he required peace.