The children are made from the clouds.
As they fall, they drag the storm with them— black hair like crisscrosses amid the grey clouds— faces warped from the wind like a rope tied too tightly around a twig of a pole.
Typhoons dance and twirl from their eyeballs, and their voices crackle and sputter when they laugh. They fall gracefully, if not abruptly. They shoot through the air like locusts in search for ground. Upon impact, they stop, shudder and vaporize.
They stay there, at last, hovering above the barren hills of sand like a mist of ground insects.
A. R. Frederiksen is a recurring guest blogger here at BnV, and her own writing blog can be found here, where she dabbles in flashfiction/poetry and reflects over the, much elusive, ABCs of writing.