I have seen a storm where the rain had not fallen.
Among the grey clouds, swirling and massive, the sun hid in fear. The wind carried the storm, and it fell, rough and coarse against soft skin. It smells of roaring fires and petrichor.
It reeks of death.
Perhaps if I listen hard enough, I'd hear the pleas from victims I barely know. They suffer alone, miles and miles away.
And yet their terror is clearer to me than any other sunny day.
YOU ARE READING
The World's Whispers
General FictionIn the heat of Herwon Valley lies a broadcast station. A radio host, Samuel, resides inside. He hears nothing. This is a collection of what isn't real.
