by Kathryn Silver-Hajo

Rain is rat-a-tatting the windows and lightning jolts the sky hotter than the surface of the sun. I thrill to that wild music, fling open the door, breathe in smells of wet soil and rock. And I’m sixteen again, stealing out of my stepfather’s house to the refuge of bellowing skies, bare arms puckering. I bound barefoot and ecstatic through empty streets, waterfalls sluicing down my back, and when thunder resounds through my drenched body, I dance harder, spinning like a dervish. Now my small, fearless dog is beside me on my own porch—all pointed ears, hackles and erect tail—sounding her fierce warning barks. Utterly wise in the ways of the world, I am sure she is telling me, get inside, fool, it’s perfectly safe in there.

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Kathryn Silver-Hajo writes short fiction, long fiction, and poetry. She studied in the Creative Writing MFA program at Emerson College and has a degree in Middle Eastern studies. Her stories and poems appear or are forthcoming in Cleaver Magazine, Unbroken Journal, The Drabble, The Ekphrastic Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Rusted Radishes: Beirut Literary and Art Journal. Kathryn’s work may be found on her website:

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