March 16, 2016 by RJ
There was a savage thunderstorm outside. Water was inside the walls. My sister and I hid under a blanket together, peeking through a hole we’d ripped in the old wool, watching the group home hallway. It was loud. All the kids were up and alive, wearing new temperatures, animal dancing, like the storm was finally letting them live. One of the kids walked by our bedroom door with a flashlight duct taped to the top of his head. He was speaking his own language. He looked like a God. More kids followed. My sister and I held our breaths and watched the hallway, the kids. We didn’t know what to worship. Police sirens moved through the city like power lines and we pulled the blanket tighter, grinding our teeth. Lightning flashed across the room and the hairs on my sister’s arms stood up and soon the thunder cracked so raw and rumbled low under our bed, shaking the whole home. All the kids in the hallway screamed out their hearts. It was our first year there, as orphans. My sister was smiling. I could tell by her ballooned cheeks. “Like blue spears. The lightning looks like blue spears on the walls,” she said, and under the blanket I moved closer to her and put my lips against her lips and inhaled as much as I could from her, and then we shut our eyes down temporarily.
JESSE EAGLE is the editor of the online flash fiction journal DOGZPLOT.