sjsprWriting

Turning the knob, hoping for the absence of a struggle. A loud creek comes from expanded wood scraping against is counter part. They check on their fellow peers.

Peering around the corner, they assess the damage to their tattered home. Doors were swung open, not by choice. Wet furniture is sprawled across the rooms. They search and hope.

Hoping for the damage to cease. A loud boom, interrupts thoughts, and causes heads to swivel. Listening intently to the source crash.

Crashing glass against the hardwood floor and gusts of wind tunneling through the house. Beneath a table, previously remembered by happiness now remembered by the fear and a protector, they hide. Huddled for safety from the unavoidable fury. Sitting in darkness for there is no light.

Lightning strikes and commodities are gone. Nothing left untouched by the destructive hands of nature. All they hope for is time.

Timing their wait. Timing their life. What they have left they don’t know but all they hope for is time.