I smell the wet in the gloom as water streams around the house.
It mists my face.
The rushing wind presages the rumble of the thunders as they race across the heavens.
A surrounding sea of indistinct willowy giants sway in the fog before me
as they attempt to hold up the sky.
Lightning flickers the stark tree-scape into and out of existence.
In the end, I hear the long mournful howl of the air raid siren.
Advertisements
i really like this!
________________________________
LikeLike
I’m glad!
LikeLike
…”into and out of existence”…!
As always, overwhelmed, Russ!
🙂
LikeLike
Thanks Marina! Half the fun is just trying to describe what I perceive. 🙂
LikeLike
Telling a story that forces the reader to build the story and its meaning in his imagination is the highest form of the short short story art. Great work.
LikeLike