I haven’t written from a prompt in so long that it was nice to do this. It is fairly rough- as most all of these are that I share with you. I don’t edit much at all, and maybe one day I’ll look back and regret that but for now, I like that it’s something I’m able to do without too much work or editing or whatnot.
She sat on the edge of the wooden stool, fingers gripping the windowsill as she watched the darkening sky. Clouds had been rolling in and were slowly blocking out the blue she loved so much. She lowered her gaze to the ground, where squirrels and birds were dashing to their hidey-holes in trees. The farm dogs ran to the house, tails tucked between their legs, panting as they hurried inside. Even her father was coming in early, driving the tractor down the lane toward the shed they’d built for it last year. As if in response to the passing of the slow machine, the trees started waving in the wind, gently, gently.
Turning from the trees, she checked on her mother in the kitchen. She’d already helped lock the windows and doors, all but this front door where her father would hurry in with a worried gaze and a reassuring smile. Her mother was checking dinner, then would go stoke the stove. She smiled as her mother did just that. Her mother liked routine. Feeling vibrations in the wood floor, she turned to see her father cleaning his boots off on the front porch. She waited until he was ready and opened the door for him. And as she’d known he would, he looked worried but smiled at her so that the fear rising in her breast eased a little. She locked the door while he hung his coat up and moved to stand in front of the fire.
She turned back to the window, the dogs on either side of her, and watched the trees whipping back and forth in the wind and the rain… the rain was just as angry as the trees as it battered everything outside. A rhythmic tapping on the floor made her turn back around. Her father was sitting down in the rocking chair, smiling at her. Relieved that he hadn’t forgotten, she slipped off the stool, her bare feet hitting the wood floor one after the other, and hurried to climb into her father’s lap. He tucked a quilt over her and started the chair rocking as they watched the storm outside.
As she relaxed in the warmth of her father’s embrace, the stress that had been building in her chest eased even more. Storms were unnatural things – so violent and angry and yet, silent. Storms should rage and hurt one’s eardrums with the sound of the wind and rain and lightening. Instead, they remained silent- except for the occasional shuddering of the house from a particularly strong gust of wind. But the rocking chair kept up its rhythm, and her father’s arms were strong about her and she could feel that he was talking with her mother by the vibrations from his chest. And she pulled the quilt up around her shoulders as they rocked, gently, gently.
(the writing prompt was ‘describe a thunderstorm without using the sense of hearing’)
I hope you enjoyed this, thanks for stopping by SGL,
Laura
the start of a good life 