Poetry and Writes

Sinner's Storm (WRITE)

*A 15-minute write. Include the words LIGHTNING, APPLES, BLACK, and WHITE. I was not allowed to cross anything out.*

Lightning crashes upon the plain. Jail cell bars struck by a patrol light, jail cell bars growing dark again. Contrast, stark. A contrast between man and law, a contrast between storm and earth.

He sets his face grim as footsteps fade. He hears a jingle of keys, a passing sigh. Like they have anything to complain about.

Miles away, lightning flashes. An orchard swamped and shuttered by strobe. Rain commencing to fall, sweeping along the trees and grass. Yes, miles away, the storm rages on. Miles away the apples drop from heavy boughs. The moisture that has lingered in the air long before the clouds broke has rotted them weak, leaving them damp and grained with white. The apples fall from heavy bough, onto the withered black ground. Black and white, contrast, flashes.

Old hands clench onto jail cell bars. Old hands twitch at the thought of escape, old hands quiver in delight. Fingers dance along the metal greased by sinners' hopes.

Miles away the apples continue to drop, followed by their branched mothers. Crack and cry, the trees descend. Crack and cry, beaten by the lightning's sick surmise.

The old hands loosen, return to his sides. He blinks. He turns his back to the jail cell bars, not knowing entirely why. A feeling of remorse needles his stomach, and that remorse speaks. He tries not to listen.

Crack and cry, the emotion says.

The man sits on his bed, twisting the sheets in his now shaking hands. All age, all cynical wisdom, is gone. He is a young boy now, who stayed out late, his hair damp with rain. His crying mother with a cracking voice has sent him to his room, as the lightning outside rages. Flash, flash. The streaks make shadows upon the bright walls. What a contrast.

The storm ravages his family's orchard, not leaving much in its wake.