"Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the internet." Cyrus Farivar

Friday, April 22, 2011


            A single finger twitched; his first movement in hours. After several moments, he finally inhaled, and coughed until his throat burned. Rolling to his back, he shook a few more times until his lungs decided that they were clear. Dust flowed in through the holes in the glass, whipped up by the storm winds. Struggling as he searched his jacket, he tied a bandana over his nose and mouth. Propped on his elbows, he glanced around. He wasn’t sure how he’d made it wherever this place was.
            Crawling to the windowsill he eased himself up and took a chance to peer out. Far below was a vacant street. Hesitant, he stood and continued to watch for movement. Nothing but the wind. Coughing, he stepped back and sank into the lone chair. Emptying his pockets, he only found a lighter, a crank radio, and a penlight. There seemed to be only one way into his location, the door currently blocked by some overturned appliances.
            It took more energy than he had to get the dishwasher and fridge out of his way. Sinking to the dusty hardwood, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. His ears perked up hearing the howl of the wind pick up, large dust clouds billowing. Sandstorm.
            This had been his sanctuary last night, but the gusts had easily flung debris to ruin his bubble. All he could remember was trying to outrun the storm…

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