BIO
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.
1.
‘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,
Michelle
P.S. Writing Facebook posts by candlelight truly
changes your perspective on adjectives and cause and
effect.
2.
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,
Michelle
3.
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,
Michelle
4.
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.