The Storm Will Come Again

A short story/flash piece I wrote when I was a contributor to Helium a few months back.

It was raining. The light drizzle that always came before a really heavy downpour. The kind that showed up as if to say "get ready, here it comes." And it came within minutes, a torrential downpour of water that mixed with wind and seemed to fall from the sky sideways at an angle. But it was beautiful.

From the doorway of the cabin I watched. The rain quickly formed puddles on the ground that couldn't take anymore water into its arms. It bent the flowers whose cups could no longer hold another drop, and turned the trees into glistening wet foliage that shone in the sunshine that peeked though the clouds every once in a while. It turned up the scent of dirt that mixed with the aromas the wind picked and carried and swirled around. It was indeed the perfect storm.

I didn't want it to end. I loved storms so. They gave everything a new start, as if to give the entire world a chance to step outside and begin again. It wiped clean what muddled thoughts I had, much like an artist's brush finally dipped in water to pick up paint and begin his picture anew. I wanted it to stay, to lend me the feeling of crystal clear calm for eternity, so that I could hold onto this feeling of new beginnings and fresh starts forever. But it would end. It always did.

And when it left, leaving behind it's puddles and it's stricken landscape, the sun would come out in it's glory and give us a rainbow. It would shoot across the sky in an arc, it's colors muted but there and stay until the sun took it away. And then the day would go back to feeling like every other day, every other moment. The peace lent to me by the storm would be long gone and replaced with the every-day tasks that had me daydreaming for a storm to come again.

And in time, a storm would come.