Thousand: Three Hundred Seventy-Eight

a traveling trunk. A gust rushed the room, the walls rippling with its force, a painting of horses seemed to paw and neigh, the window curtains flexed like biceps, and the front door ground against its latch. Yet on the man’s head only his beard moved, growing rapidly, itching. Arrows impaled an Old Joker magazine on the coffee table and on the cover a naked youth bled from the mouth. Storm clouds crept into the man’s teeth and lightning jolted his fillings. He smiled and the sea rushed in. A dog was sending him postcards from a house in a