sixpetalpoppy
The typhoon raged. It ravished the land, ripped it like paper; tore through the fields, screamed through the valley. The typhoon was angry.
Trumpets, ruddy trumpets. They were all consuming, the fanfare erupted into the silence of the village. It was a summer evening and the birdsong would have been sweet but trumpets consumed it, gorging on the empty space and filling it with it's obtrusive cadence. Sarah was sick of trumpets.