by Cheryl Snell

Wind lashed debris into city streets like a trash man avenging the worst day of his life. Air bulged with sound, sirens spun blue to red while the injured stacked up in ERs. Against the televised litany of projected highs and lows, excitement spiked like fever. We had nothing to lose. We called the storm out, heckled it, shot the wind with paint-balls, tried to make it show its face. It burgled our house of words instead, hurled a tree through the window and blew out the lights, leaving us small and blind, mouths open, each moment a windsock of breath spilling out.


Cheryl Snell's books include poetry and fiction. Her recent micros have appeared in The Ilanot Review, The Cafe Irreal, The Drabble, Bright Flash Literary, and others.