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Weekly Contest #288
As night approaches, the grasshoppers chirp defiantly against the silence. A storm is brewing—a familiar event in these parts. Moisture saturates the air as clouds churn from whites to grays. The wind begins to howl, sweeping across the prairie.My chair creaks as I rock to the rhythm of the rustling suncatchers. I’ve always loved storms, especially in the open, where they bare their teeth, nothing taming them. The smell, though, is strange. It’s not that of rain but of smoke, thick and treacherous. Birds fill the sky, fleeing quickly in anti...
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