Michelle Lizet Flores


Being a native Floridian and current resident, Michelle Lizet Flores is happy to have returned to the land where trees don’t sleep. A graduate of FSU and NYU creative writing programs, she currently works as a 5th grade reading teacher where she fosters the next generation of American writers. She has previously been published in magazines such as The Miami Rail, Noble/Gas Qtrly, and Rigorous, and has work forthcoming in Gravel Magazine, Azahares, The Bookends Review, Cagibi, and the St. Katherine Review. Find out more at michellelizetflores.com

A series of Facebook updates after Hurricane Irma.


‘Tis the 7th hour of the morn. Notos has released his

lover Irma onto our beloved village. The children sleep,

awaiting Hypnos’ release. Our humble home still

stands, electricity powering food storage and air

conditioning. Leaks have sprung throughout our quaint

condo, however, and I fear we may have unforeseeable

damage on the horizon. Even so, all is well. We are dry,

warm, and safe. Until next time dear ones.


With all my heart,



P.S. Writing Facebook posts by candlelight truly

changes your perspective on adjectives and cause and




The elders of the house have taken to the patio. Lady

Violet rests in our bed chamber, napping after a

restless night. Outside, Apollo seems to have lost his

chariot again. Young Carlos examines the earth, taking

sample of greenery, mud, and dirt. Lord Louie and I

attempt contact with the outside world, wi-fi

connection be damned. Irma’s breath can still be felt in

our midst, slamming doors and branches against our

sturdy abodes. The rain has stopped though the still-

standing water is ever present.


Until next time,




It seems Fortune has taken her golden skirts

elsewhere. Our power is gone. Young Carlos struggles

to overcome his desire for Peppa Pig. Lady Violet sits

at her father’s feet. Praise be that we prepared for this

moment. We have taken to worshiping Dionysus, our

hoppy elixirs and the gentle evening zephyrs luring us

to an equilibrium only found post storm.


May our previous fortune find its way to you,




A southern stillness, thick as molasses, has filled

the air. The frogs have regained their voices, croaking

into the twilight. When a Northerner asks me what it

means to survive a hurricane, I think of a picture of

four Cuban men sitting at a card table, bodies waste

deep in flood water, fichas clipping in the quiet space.

My lager warms my belly as I make my way inside,

realizing I am one of the privileged ones, realizing

that I know nothing of what it means to survive.



© The Acentos Review 2018