Slow, and thick, looming over the back-forty like uncombed wool. Pressing the hot, wet air out from under its feet, blowing it in fits through the aspens. They ruffle their feathers gleefully and whisper like school children.
(more) Sound a warm, crumbling simmer. Tectonic plates shifting. Icebergs calving. Planets colliding. The grating of great things against each other.
Then it breaks. Snags like the hull of a leviathan run aground. Fluids pouring in and pouring out. Pressure neutralizing. Fast sinking. And we gaze upward at it, as if from the floor of an abyss.
Perhaps that is why I like them so much. When the world can't take it anymore and has to lash out with blinding blues and flashing whites and(more) thousands of yellow suns. Or when it throws its long-contained turmoil into the earth with resounding, furious booms and cracks that rumble of the slightest insanities. Wet wind whipping trees into Bacchic frenzies, it flaps itself like a cozy blanket strung high on a flagpole. Nurturing, wild, savage. Gray thunderheads mass their way around the cerulean heavens in minutes, breaking the maddening monotony of bright, endless days.
I feel as if all my temper tantrums have come to fruit as I rest my chin on my arms - which in turn rest on the sill of an open (mosquito-screened) window - watching cumulonimbi rip up the sky.(less)
Thunderstorms never used to bother him, but that was before the war. Now, if he was woken by a terrific thunderclap, it was all Roy could do not to get the shakes. He would curl around a pillow, pull the covers tight over his head and attempt to ride(more) out the storm's fury - frightened like a small child. Thunder during the day was easy to brush off and ignore, but that giant crack like the sky was ripping in two, locked deep in the darkness of night, and he was petrified.
At least, when he slept alone.
The distance rumble of oncoming thunder woke him, his senses on high alert, Edward pulled close in his arms. Roy gripped Edward tighter, focused on him and tried to ignore the rain pounding against the windows. Edward had curled his fists - one flesh, the other heavy, cool metal - against Roy's chest, his eyes scrunched tight, and Roy realized that Edward was shaking in his arms, trembling like a lost puppy.
Roy kissed the top of Edward's ruffled hair, burying his nose in it. Edward didn't appear to be awake, he made no protest of being held close like this. He was a strange one, disliking being held but seeking it out as he slept. It was a comfort that Roy thought maybe he wasn't allowing himself to have. Roy brushed his hand through Edward's hair and tensed as the lightning lit the world outside the drawn curtains.
The thunder rumbled closer, and Edward opened his eyes. "Hate storms," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. Roy wrapped his arms tighter around Edward, face buried in Edward's hair at the crown of his head. Edward had stopped shaking, and Roy realized he hadn't started to shake either.
It sounds like a drum roll, and we can't understand where it is coming from. I know the sound by heart, understand it in the sensation of my blood rolling through my veins.
"A thunderstorm is coming," I proclaim, smiling fondly into space.
They look at (more)me like I'm insane. Glance at me. Glance at the sky. Brilliant, bright, light blue. Not a cloud in sight. Glance at me. Arch a few eyebrows. Look at the sky.
Moments later there is another one. This one louder, like a the roll of a bass drum. I smile and remain silent. The clouds have gathered in this distance, dark and foreboding in a way that sends pleasant shivers down my spine. They look up and groan. I was right, and it looks like it will be an impressive storm.
Seconds pass and the thunder rolls on and on, nearly continuous. The dark gray clouds are solid, nearly black, as the sit above us waiting. Lightning flashes and the down pour begins. They sit inside and stare at me like I'm crazy. I'm outside, rolling with the thunder, twirling with the lighting, dancing in the rain. (less)
There was a flash of lightning. "1...2...3...4...5" I counted in my head. Then came the rolling thunder. "5 miles away" I thought as I lay in my bed, bundled in a thick yellow quilt.
It was June and the storms were getting more and more frequent, but (more)I didn't care. I found the storms soothing, especially at night. It provided me with some active scenery while I lay awake contemplating life. For example, why did I find the most disturbing things comforting?
The storm that was raging outside my window had sent my dog scurrying under my bed, to whimper until it passed. Some of these storms would create a tornado, not uncommon in the state of Kansas, and yet I still felt no fear. I felt as if nothing natural could cause as much turmoil as I had inside myself.
The storm came to a lull and I fell asleep only to wake up to the sun gleaming through my second story window.
The storm had passed but I was no longer at peace. It would be many years before my sun would come to wash away my fears of happiness. (less)
The sound of loud thunder always brings back memories of the past. Antonio still remembers the way that Lovino would crawl under his covers in the middle of a thunderstorm. Small fists clutching at white sheets, too scared to even pretend he wasn’t.
(more) But he’s still surprised when he hears the door creaking open as another loud rumble comes from outside.
Lovino isn’t crying like he once did, but he looks noticeably nervous, so Antonio just offers him a soft smile and raises up the covers for him. The Italian looks like he might protest, opening his mouth and quickly shutting it again without a word.
There’s no point in pretending. Not around him, not in the warm calm of the bedroom.
Lovino quietly slips under the covers, foot sliding against Antonio’s leg. The bed seems smaller now, or likely it’s just that Lovino is bigger. He doesn’t move his foot away like Antonio expects him to, instead letting it rest against soft skin as a small sigh escapes his lips.
There’s another boom of thunder, and Antonio kisses Lovino’s forehead when his body jerks at the noise. For once he isn’t swatted away, and the Italian moves in closer, resting his head on a warm chest.
Things haven’t changed much, he thinks as he runs a hand through Lovino’s hair. That’s just fine with him though.
Lovino is the one thing he doesn’t want to change.(less)
Rolling thunder crackled around me as I crept along in the shadows. Perfectly timed. Just like in all the horror movies where someone's about to commit evil deeds.
There's something about thunder that I admire. It's a sound that seemingly has no origin. The sky is vast and(more) the sound travels to every little house in every little suburb, scaring puppies and little children. How I wish I could be thunder.
I let myself in through the gate and entered a backyard. Yes, thunder had it easy. I approached the sliding door and slid myself through the gap. Thank goodness for hot summer nights.
I tiptoed around the house and came to his bedroom. There he was, in bed, oblivious of my presence. I hung in the doorway, watching his chest rise and fall in time with the thunder.
I moved closer to him. I could hear him breathe, if you could even call it breathing. It was more of a wheeze. His snoring was dwarfed by the thunder.
I brought my hands to his neck and felt his warm skin. The eyes opened. The head jolted and he slid to the other side of the bed.
I switched on the bedside light and smiled a devilish smile.
He looked shocked.
"Joe? What the hell?" he almost cried.
"Sorry hun, I wanted to surprise you. I'm back from Sydney early," I said.
"Consider myself surprised," he said.
We embraced and the thunder stopped. Rain began to pour down. There's something about rain I admire.
Three days ago Robert Lyle's best friend had been murdered by the Cross gang. Out on a resupply mission, they had held up Wyatts Gunshop and killed the proprietor and his son when they attempted to pull firearms from under the counter. Unfortunately for (more)Jack Mirren, who had been in the shop feeding his love of guns, the recently deceased had blurted out the name 'Cross' before they departed. Leaving witnesses to a double murder they had committed was not in the gang's best interest. Jack was executed.
Now Robert stood face to face with Thomas Cross, the younger brother of Vincent Cross, and had a Ruger LC9 glued to his hand. The loaded chamber indicator on the gun was bright red and Robert noticed Thomas glancing at it.
"As you can see it's ready to go," said Robert. "You don't need to worry about that."
"I'm not worried about it," said Thomas. He glanced at the indicator again. "I'm just thinking you'll regret putting the bullet that's in that chamber through my head. Do you have any idea what my brother is like. He can be an evil son of a bitch. Best stay on his good side, boy." He smiled.
"Funny aren't you," said Robert. "I'll show you funny."
He aimed the gun at Thomas and Thomas let out a chuckle.
"I don't know what you are laughing at. This moment has been rolling around my head like a thunderstorm since I found out where you guys had a nest. You were easy to find, you're not that good."
"You know he cried before we shot him," said Thomas. "Vomited too. Begged Vinny not to do it. We didn't have time to check if he shit himself but he probably..."
Robert squezzed the trigger. The silence was beautiful.
Wooden floors creak in the humid Eastern side of Beaumont. I pace back and forth between my grandfathers old rocking chair, and the bed where he laid like a rock. An old pilot in WWII, he used to fly over the seas of Japan, now he lays in the sea of(more) waiting.
I step outside to light up a cigarette.
The wind granted me the savory feeling of being at ease. Even I knew that it was only an illusion.
For there were clouds off in the distance, a storm was brewing, I took that as a sign from God.
We aren't on the best of terms.
The cigarette was down to the filter in a matter of minutes. Too nervous to just breathe. As I flicked the cancer down, I heard rolling thunder.
I walk inside, and peered at my withered old grandfather.
He was dying. Everyone, especially him, knew that.
If only he could flick the cancer away like I did.
Time for the mortality clock to count down.
I walked into the room, he gazed a blank stare, his eyes now blacker than ever.
I crept closer to him, he made no movements, his eyes fixated on the ceiling.
I grabbed his hand. It was the coldest thing in the room.
The clouds formed dark grey curtains in the sky.
"Papa..?" Is all I could utter.
He shifted his view towards me. His eyes as big as planets.
We stared at each other for what seemed like hours.
My grip tightened, as did his, waiting for a reply.
The room is just a shadow now. He opens his mouth to speak.
"It's time to greet God now..."
The room seized, all that was left was rolling thunder.(less)