The storm was coming. I could hear its angry, squalling voice from over the horizon. Yelling, shouting, thundering. Warning me to take cover. The clouds like old bruises on the face of a battered woman, dark and purple and full to bursting, full of sorrow. The sky screams with flashes of light. Startling me as I stare into the darkness. The storm was coming, tearing its way through the sky, poised to leave a trail of destruction in its wake. I hope I survive it.

A storm was coming! The chocolatey rumble of its voice rolled over the sky, its velvety vocals warming my soul. The sky illuminated with dazzling flashes of light, like glitzy earrings dangling from a woman’s ears as she throws her head back in laughter. I could smell the cool, crisp scent of the rain that would wash the world clean. Like freshly mowed grass; the smell of infinite possibility. The trees danced in anticipation, like chorus girls taken over by the magic of the music, excited to join the party.

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction