The control room breathed a deep sigh of relief. They’d succeeded in venting the noxious gas from the room.
The facility was safe.
A man sniffed, then another, and they turned. I reddened and pretended it wasn’t me as the alarm sounded again.
scribbles stories and, when not unconscious from his dog’s fumes, he laughs.
Sometimes heralded by trumpet or the quacking of a duck, the phantom is released.
Mischievously, often maliciously, it materializes; only to be rebuked by coughing and the waving of hands.
Retreating into the fabric of both cushion and time, the ghost of wind past lurks, waiting to be released anew.
Craig spends his time avidly fishing for compliments and hunting for the right words. He has previously been published on fiftywordstories.com