The fifth of June in the year of nineteen hundred and twenty seven

An excerpt from The Eccentric Diaries of Kristopher Krum.

The whistling persists again today in the valley below my hill. The unnamed books from the cellar say it's an omen, a sign of poor will to come.

Against my better will I walked to the foot of the hill where the grass grows above my head. The wind tossed the tassels about. They licked at my hair and tickled my cheeks. I smelled warmth in the distance. A fire, maybe.

From the window of my cabin I see an ocean of manila stalks pocked by dark and rigid cattails. The sky is always clear. The sun is never to be seen. The kitchen faucet continues to drip. At least the floor no longer creaks beneath my feet.

I wondered about the books and the signs and the soft sounds serenading me as I cooked a dinner of pasta and tomato paste. That's all I have left for hot meals. In the pantry are twenty more cans of the paste, thirteen more boxes of short and thick noodles, more jars of pickled meats and vegetables than I care to consider.

I wonder how long until I need to open them.

I marked another "X" on the calendar. Tweny-two days since my mother and father had left.