TORNADO by Tobi Alfier Kansas City, convention center, sixteenth floor. Sick, gray-yellow outside, so thick, all that’s visible is trash hitting the windows, trying to get in. Newspaper, metal, wood— like when a bird strikes the breakfast patio on a stormy morning, falls back stunned, and you’re helplessly trapped inside by the flood. The noise, the wind, day and night look the same. No sirens that high up, no television warnings, no elevator. Can’t see out to be frightened of rain, no thunder to be heard, no lightning. This is the muffled nightmare that silences everyone, the dream never familiar. Conventioneer with a mini-bar, held hostage by the storm, a glass coddled in your shaking fist. Gyroscope Review - page 1!