Nellie’s boots had settled into a rhythmic gravel crunch when the air stopped dead, chirps silenced, birds vanished. She peered at the greening sky—hadn’t it just been washed-up blue?—and weighed her chances of making it back to the storm cellar, her husband. One kind of safety.
A chunk of hail slit her twice-scarred cheek. She spied him scurrying to shut the door against her.
Nellie howled, unleashed her long-stifled rage. It fueled the twister, driving it faster and wilder, reeling across the hardpack yard, sucking the bastard into the maelstrom and out of her life.
Safety, dead certain.
Marcy Dilworth is a recovering finance professional finally pursuing her love of writing. Her fiction appears in Typehouse Literary Magazine, Sledgehammer Magazine, Janus Literary, Blink Ink, and elsewhere. She earned her English degree at the University of Virginia and lives with her family in Clifton, Virginia. On Twitter, @MarcyDilworth.
The Centifictionist 
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