There is an earthquake in Japan, and I hold my hands on my belly that seizes with the rumble of patting feet. The news warns of tsunami waves as close as California or Hawaii and as far as Japan.
Category: July 2014
Thunderstorm by Campbell Hoffman
“Mama, I do not like thunderstorms,” she declared with a whisper. And with wide worried eyes she told me how today, at camp, some kids told her that she could die if she looked at lightning.
Tornado by Feagin Jones
We lived in the black-veined mountains, because my father was a coal-mining engineer. Where my father and I saw comfort, my mother saw dilapidated houses, smeared on the sides of hills.
Water by Janee J. Baugher
An elderly woman trapped in a nursing home called and said, “Are you coming, son? Is somebody coming?” “Yeah, Mama, somebody’s coming to get you on Tuesday.”
Sitting With the Storm by Christine Hale
On the other side of the stuccoed cinderblock walls, the unfamiliar howls: a hurricane, the first of four—Charley, Frances, Ivan, and Jeanne—that will maul Florida during the summer of 2004.
Southern Rain by Todd Sentell
You know it’s been a bad rain when you see so many dead frogs. I saw a lot of them along the side of the road. The air smells different during a flood.
Distance by Matthew Brennan
I wanted to stand in the potential of harm’s way, feel closer than the breadth of this shared water allowed.
Runner by Clive Collins
“I dreamed rain,” she said, sitting up in the bed. | “It’s raining outside. Chucking it down. Must have got into your dream.”
Bus Ride With Santa, the Average Citizen and Me by Jenna Matthys
It is exactly zero degrees, and the sleet is hitting my cheek faster that I can wipe it away.
The Writing Life: I’m in ‘Communications’ by Jim Gray
When my son, Charley, first asked me what my job was, I turned away from my dual-screen iMac and told him I was a graphic designer. He stood silent, face blank.