The storm was swiftly approaching. Lighting illuminated the clouds and filled the air with its charge. He hid in the grass. The hair on his arms was standing on end from the energy that raced from earth to sky. The feeling of it became unbeatable, a sign that this was the moment.
It was truly time. It was truly here.
With a small groan, he dug his fingers into the dirt, pushing himself upright. For a moment the wind knocked him forwards as he blocked its race into the valley. He could see it all from here. With each flash of light, jagged and unnatural shapes surfaced throughout the landscape. The smooth plains of grass that once rolled up the mountains to where he stood, convulsed with uneven grace. The grass beat against his legs and tickled his knuckles as he waited.
The thunder would come. That would be next.
It would be the echo to the light, fed from the ground. The bass from the skies. Unpreventable, unstoppable but entirely predictable. It was coming.
Then the rains.
They would chase the clap and drawl of thunder. From this point he would be able to see that rushing curtain of water which would engulf his entire valley. A chill joined hands with the vicious wind, blowing into his face, pushing back his mane. Goosebumps dotted his arms and he closed his eyes.
That bass, that thunder.
His gut felt it first, a pressure of sound pushing into his stomach and he screamed against its force. The sound flooded into his ears. Snapping his eyelids open he took a hard look at the land. One more broken glance as lightening again revealed every crack and edge in the valley.
And there it was. A curtain, a wall, a cape of rainfall.
It raced between the mountains. What destruction it had already accomplished, he would never know, but it was easy to imagine as it pulled at the land. The trees. He watched it race into his valley, filling the holes with a disturbed and dirty river. The flood taking, erasing, snatching the history of that place.
What had he done? What had they done?
(c) Kristin Bergene 2011