By CL Bledsoe

The wind blew steadily for three days before they came. The power had been out since the first day from downed trees. The water was out because the pump was electric. We were pissing in the back yard, shitting in a child’s potty we’d found in the attic. What we missed the most was status updates. They came in hard, rocking the house on its rotting foundations. Everything had already been stripped from the walls, so there was nothing left to fall but our hopes. They entered through the already broken windows, twirling in the dust that never rested. We immediately threw the remnants of our food at them, cowards that we were, but they weren’t looking for food. They were looking for adoration, blind obedience, worthwhile coupons to respectable establishments. They were looking for things we could never understand. So we gave them cash. They refused, went through all our clothes but refused even our brightest socks. They sat on our couch, which made no sense since TV was dead. The syn-tactical structures of their whines were strange and complex. They complained about America and its need for hats, the necessity of dry hands in effective business introductions. Their shrill voices pierced our ears like hot pins. When they left, they took only our compla-cency. And some change from the bowl by the door.