Whirlwind 2021

Whirlwind
Leila’s Surrealist Self-Portrait ~Leila P.
d
Apartment 12B
By Sophia W.
Decrepit iron doors, with a whisper
of light peeking through a missing panel,
heralded the entrance to the apartment
building. A single window glowed with
warm orange lamplight, a little beacon
casting its signal. It just barely illuminated
the mottled gray-and-white bricks beyond
the window’s edges.
The same sunset shade of light flashed
in the skies above, in the writhing mass of
black clouds that funnelled down towards
the window.
The harsh wind tousled his ashy
brown hair as he climbed the old, worn
steps. The shifting sediment in the air made
the color of his clothing unrecognizable.
Surely centuries of dust and dirt stirred
and swirled above where the cobblestones
plateaued.
He felt his muscles tense and his hand
instinctively curl into a fist as he took stock
of the place, concerned. His eyes roved over
the upper levels of apartments as he strode
toward the building.
Eye of the storm, he thought.
He pulled open the iron doors and
ducked inside. The “lobby” was little more
than a broom closet, with just enough space
for the receptionist’s desk and a file cabinet.
The young man at the desk looked up from
a book in surprise.
“Quite early for visitors,” the
receptionist said. “Can I get a name?”
“Matthias Swift,” he told him. “I’m here
about the - you know -” He made a swirling
motion with his finger.
The receptionist stared at him blankly.
Clearly, he hadn’t been outside in several
hours.
“Never mind,” said Matthias, deciding
against involving him unnecessarily. “I’m a
plumber. Apartment 12B is that way?” He
pointed to a doorway on the left.
The receptionist nodded. “Be quiet
about it; they’re nearly all asleep.”
Matthias took this as an invitation
to dash up the stairs. This wasn’t his first
rodeo, and his heavy shoes barely made
a sound against the hardwood. Reaching
the first floor, he bolted across the springy
12
carpet and skidded to a stop in front of
apartment 12B. Light spilled from the
cracks around the door, and Matthias
wondered briefly how the occupants could
afford so many lamps.
He knocked.
For a moment there was no response.
He heard a faint wail and a shuffling noise.
Then the door swung open. A middleaged
woman with bedraggled blonde hair
escaping from its bun looked up at him
with desperate eyes.
“Oh, thank goodness! They’ve sent
someone at last.” She ushered him in. “I
swear, I’ve submitted an investigation form
a dozen times in vain. I knew something
was wrong.”
Matthias stepped into a room full of
children. Two bunk beds and several cots,
their frames falling apart just as much as
the rest of the building, were squeezed into
a space that would ordinarily be used as a
living room. The kids were all huddled near
the door, a few small ones clinging to the
woman’s dress.
Continued on p. 13