Closing the door quickly. The windows reverberating from the blast. Nothing in sight. No one in the street or behind the houses. It could have been a heavily laden truck up on the highway, or a someone felling a tree. Unsettling. Jackknifing into the evening news. Fires in the city center, drone strikes, alarms sounding at the nuclear plant. Dreams crumbling into the folds of the day, shimmering despite the repetition of destruction, the cacophony of violence, disseminated a billion times, screens wobbling, volumes suddenly decreased. It was a good idea to close the door and stay away from the windows. The slight squeaking might be a bat in the attic, settling in for the night. Upside-down and at ease. The slightest crack between the window frame and the wall allows passage. I might join him in the attic, leave the screens wobbling in the kitchen, the kaleidoscope of destruction fading behind me. Better pull up the shaking wooden ladder, tuck the steps under the floor. The light might seep in.
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Andrea Moorhead
Pic: Claire Palmer
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