APRIL 2011

supercell maniac,
blossoming shadow,
your breadth and
the alarms that
heralded your arrival!
it will sound like
a train, a truck,
a roaring engine
no, friend, i promise
it will sound like the
voice of god.
the pink quadrilaterals
smiled at me
from the television
screen. silly
pixels. growling
thunder. did
you see the sky lit
up in those delicate
pinks? the rose
petals scattered
across the pavement
“it’s the worst!” they
cried to whoever
would listen, into
the microphones,
stepping across the
fallen branches
and the white
shutters across
the lawn.
it wasn’t, but
they all thought
so. the supercells
proved them
wrong, spitting their
children unto any
surface that would
accept them.
the cumulonimbus,
for years after, did
not look the same.
they were too weary,
too soft, lacking the
strength of that black
sky, paling in
comparison to that
updraft, and their
shrewd offspring


Grace Yannotta is currently in her senior year of high school in North Carolina. She's an aspiring author and an aspiring historian and an aspiring a lot of things. She has work published or forthcoming in Dream Noir, Angry Old Man, Zin Daily, and Anti-Heroin Chic among others, as well as an upcoming astrology column in Dark Wood Magazine.