A whirlwind miniaturized or contained in the human form is no less than a swath of destruction waiting to happen. Spun up from the archive is Marvin Shackelford’s “Wet Tracks Far from a Crossing”:
This poem originally appeared in SC 4.2. This one here (or download); check out our latest; subscribe and we will bering your fingers with ink torii. Read on.
P.S. We’re seeking staff readers, especially for flash-and-fiction. Check it; then email us.