Tornado - Keith Woodruff

Content Note: a brief mention of child abuse, harm to animals

We were a storm. Five boys barreling through fences and fields with a tornado’s rage, tearing down every “no trespassing” sign in sight. The countryside was ours. Birds held back their song as we passed; the grass bowed down flat. Nights, we’d sneak out bedroom windows, crushing cricket song underfoot as we prowled from porch to porch to steal  and peek in windows for mothers undressing, our hearts beating loud as the moon was bright. Days, we’d walk the Grand River, spear it dry of carp. Leave their bodies on the river’s edge to rot. We should have left Crazy Bob there, too. Even though he dug out a carp’s eyes with his fingers and threw it back to see if it could swim blind, we kept him. Even though he laughed hysterically when it sank, we kept him. Without us, he’d be home with a dad who was all fists and bit him once. Howling, we’d break through the swamp grass to spook up deer, chase them on foot. Sure we'd catch one barehanded if gifted a predator's wind at our backs. When the deer were no longer enough, we turned on each other with pellet guns, flushing the silence up in flocks from acres of sleeping fields with our screams and warrior pantomimes, small bursts of murderous play that left us bleeding but still friends, and for that, nailed up like stars in each other’s minds.

Originally published by Quarter After Eight, 2016. The piece was then selected for Best Small Fictions 2017 by Amy Hempel.

Keith Woodruff lives in San Antonio, TX with a backyard full of moody tomato plants. His poetry has appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, Sundog Lit, New World Writing Quarterly and Bear Review. His flash/micro appeared in lovely places like Wigleaf, Does it Have Pockets?, JMWW, Identity Theory, HAD, Pithead Chapel, Reckon Review, FlashFlood and most recently Roi Faineant Press. Read him in BSF 2017 and 2019. He was awarded a 2018 Pushcart prize.  www.keithawoodruff.com. @keithwoodruff.bsky.social