by Jack Swenson

I'm in a grocery store when the earthquake hits. A woman screams, and an aisle of shelves in the liquor section falls over, filling my nostrils with the smell of whiskey. I crawl along the floor looking for a hole to hide in. The Mad Hatter and the Queen of Hearts are huddled together by a checkout stand arguing about the size of the quake; she claims it was at least an eight; he says, no no. When the shaking stops, a man gets to his feet and peers over the counter at a clerk who is cowering on the floor below the cash register. "Hey," he says in a loud voice, "can't a guy get any service around here?"


Jack Swenson teaches creative writing at a Senior Center and spends most of his spare time writing. His wife thinks he should be working in the yard. Check out his books at iuniverse.com or amazon.com.