The Storm

By Lizzie Odell, TIWP Student

It is dark today. As the storm rages outside and the thunder sounds, a little girl stands by the window and watches in silent astonishment as the wind bends the trees towards the ground. She sits quietly as the lightning splits the sky and reflects off her bright blue eyes. She steps out into the storm and lets the rain leave soft, cold kisses on her cheeks. She feels the fury of the sky and she revels in it. The fire in her belly is reunited in the face of the fire in the sky. She is not afraid of the storm. She takes comfort in its power—for she and it are one in the same. And the storm moves on without her.

It is dark today. And as the storm rages outside and the thunder sounds, a teenage girl stands by the window and watches in silent indifference. She sits quietly as the wind bends the trees towards the ground and the drone of a teacher’s voice fills the empty space in her head. As she watches the rain race down the window pane, she wishes with all her heart that she could feel those soft, cold kisses again. But she does not move. And the storm moves on without her.

It is dark today. And as the storm rages and the thunder sounds, a young woman sits by the window and watches with irritation—for what is a storm but an inconvenience? The roaring thunder means distraction from her work and the pouring rain interests her no more than a TV show that she clicks past on a Sunday morning. And the storm moves on without her.

It is dark today. And as the storm rages and the thunder sounds, an old woman sits in a bed by the window with tears streaming down her face. As she listens to the roaring thunder and watches the pouring rain, she wishes with all her heart that she could feel those soft, cold kisses just one last time. But it is too late. And the storm moves on without her.

 

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