Surveying the Storm
by Z Zoccolante
After the storm, there was silence. It pressed between us like pockets of honeycomb, sticky and sweet, like the amber that might catch a bee to form prehistoric stones. Others might admire it later.
After the storm, broken glass spread like sugar crystals across the floor, razor thin. My footsteps were red. The pain a distant knock, I knew would grow louder until I answered. Tick tock, a heart beneath the floorboards, holding pause. . .
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