It permeated the room.
Curling and twisting
as if it had a mind of its own,
but destruction in its wake.
Children ran screaming.
Adults cringed in fear
as nausea overtook them.
Alone, I stood before the beast.
“Please,” I pleaded.
“Stop feeding the dog table scraps.
You know it makes him fart.”
This is a Flash Fiction Friday 55.
If you want to know what the hell that means visit g-man. The challenge is on.
Or Try my Sunday 160.