Twister

Shelling peas was challenging — sad Maddie’d lost her hands, but not in the event that leveled the center of town. Main Street buckled at exactly two o’clock that fateful Saturday afternoon — rose up then down, just as folks were milling about, exchanging recipes for plum wine and buying elastic and darting across the street to greet or avoid meddlesome neighbors. First a whoosh like a runaway locomotive. Silver minnows fell from the sky. Windows feathered, fell onto shifting sidewalks. Buildings tumbled, entombing the townspeople — mouths agape, legs splayed — under the rubble of concrete, donuts, rebar, lampposts, lambchops, a theater marquee heralding the latest film —

            S

                        TAR

                           R

                        ING

No one to sweep it up.

Tourists come to gawk. Little Joey in a red cap arrives with his homeschooling mother. He teeter-totters on the wreckage, hanging on to the strap of her bag. Marveling at the toppled marquee. Joey points to the letters all askew, grins, plumps up like a rooster and crows, “STARING!” Mother sours, slaps his cherry cheeks, tells him he should know better. “…no better,” he repeats, watching his whole life stumble in front of him like jagged railroad tracks, like he had no hands.