Short stories

Screams of the wind

She sat defeated and clouded evergreen eyes downcast staring at her bare feet. She's wrapped in an old tattered blue blanket with an old logo half worn away. She sits surrounded by the remnants of the storm sitting among the battered remains of the oak tree. Though the storm finished hours earlier she feels as though it still rages on as the blood wipes off her feet into the grass. Her rust-colored hair sits in her face as it falls out of her bun. The sky above her may be yellow but hers is a muted gray that begs to be colored. Just an hour earlier her head had been filled with screams as she hid under the stairs. When they finally stopped her mother had been dead and she had run out the door. The wind was starting to work its way back up to the deafening howl it had been hours ago.