Anthony Fair

He had the dream again from ninety stories high. Smoke as acrid and black as fresh oynx gnawing at his lungs like a rabid Cerberus. He could not speak. His body screamed for air and the tiny crawl of hot ants running across his limbs and he brought the chair against the window again and again until it gave and the cold fresh air whistled a hollow hymn. The sun was veiled in the rolling clouds of black and beyond was the city and he could not breath any better now. He looked down and put his weight on the supports of the building to keep him anchored. The first scream came followed by a second. Business suits floating down through the impossible black, free from the smoke, and finding their voices in a sudden clipped scream and then silence. The wind seemed to pause in deference and resound again and louder still.
He forced himself awake and tried to unsee the horror. But the black of the hotel room only kept him there unstuck and all that was missing were the screams. He turned for the lamp beside the bed.