By John Gabriel Adkins
The weathervane was alive and it was dancing stomping on the roof and I couldn’t sleep and no one could sleep. Dad in his blue pajamas went out to yell at it, and when that didn’t work he shot at it, but it ducked down behind the roof peak and that didn’t work either. All the neighbors came out to look and the firemen came and brought it down a ladder, still kicking and shaking. Mom said we wouldn’t be getting another weathervane anytime soon and she was right.
Bio: John Gabriel Adkins is a Pushcart-nominated writer of microfiction, anti-stories and other oddities. His work has appeared in The Escapist, Gone Lawn, Squawk Back, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Apocrypha & Abstractions and more.