The Literary Review, March 22nd, 2000
The windows and doors were boarded. Outside, the typhoon was banging its fury like my drunken father locked out of the house. Inside, my brother and sisters joined me around a campfire of candles. The typhoon toppled an electrical post. It howled; it hurled matter into matter. We heard the thrashing flight of sheet iron, the crack of branches splitting from the trees. The house shook, and we huddled in the near-darkness, as if cowering back into the primitive. We told stories while bending near the candles, collecting the stalactites of wax we later fed to the flames. We talked about the nei...
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