Static
by Mae Grey
· 18/01/2026
Published 18/01/2026 13:55
The orange light kicks on.
The wind is a razor.
The swings move an inch.
Back and forth, unprompted
by any breeze I can feel.
A cold, rhythmic creak.
The yellow slide is slick.
A thin skin of ice
holding the plastic still.
The stairs are empty.
The wood is old.
No one is coming down.