Tonight, there's a draft by Angie Kang

​and a chamber trio performing in a church, which is by no means unusual. In the same space there is also a man sleeping. His face is tilted upwards, angled towards the wooden rafters, a framed image of devout rapture if not for his snoring. This wouldn’t be all together unusual either, except that it’s the pianist and he is very still. Though resting on the keys, his hands have stopped moving entirely. Again, if not for the snoring, the audience would all be very concerned: for the time being, they are only mildly annoyed. They still get what they came for — both the cellist and violinist continue on as if they’ve practiced like this for weeks, and for all we know, they have. Without the piano’s undercurrent of rhythm, the strings hobble along towards the finale, their determination filling most limping gaps, reverberant snoring filling the rest. When the piece is over, the pianist’s slumped form rises to the sound of clapping, bows to accept his undeserved portion of the applause. Well, who’s to say what he can or can’t claim? Here, in his own house, God stays silent, while through the broken window, the cicadas are screaming their approval.

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Angie Kang is an artist and writer living in Providence, Rhode Island. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Narrative, Lunch Ticket, Hobart, 5×5, and others. Find more of her work at www.angiekang.net.

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