The Old Woman
Thomas O. Marino

For forty years the old woman had lived alone in the woods and she’d never been scared, until now.

She was awakened by beams of light which were as bright as flash bulbs, and when she gazed at her reflection in the window, lightening ignited the sky and she vanished into a shadow. 
There were sounds around her that she had never heard before, and her body swayed as she watched the walls lift and fall, in sync with the trees which were moaning and arching in the wind.

Rain came in walls of glass that ran down the hill in dirt streaked tears, and the raindrops came in body punches which landed with a wallop.
It wasn’t the velocity of the wind or the bludgeoning of the rain that had scared her; it was the cry, arising from its core.
From below, the dirt floor bled in tears of dead ants and from above hawks screeched and from the woods wolves howled.
Laying in bed, she wrapped a blanket around her body and yanked a wool cap down to her shoulders. She curled her knees to her chest and bit her lips. Turning on her antiquated radio, she rotated the dial through the static until she heard a voice say that our mother earth was dying.  
The earth wobbled.

The cabin twisted until it collapsed. 

First published: May, 2014
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