Thunderstorms & Such

There's a story in the storm.

ON THUNDERSTORMS

I am writing to you from another hot day choked with humidity. Lately, there has only been heat and humidity, heat and humidity, heat and humidity, an endless repeat of a song that I don’t like.

Some afternoons, the sky clouds over and the wind picks up and the air gets thick and I think we may be graced with a storm. There is nothing quite like a summer storm in the Northeast; I’ve seen them come out of nowhere, ferocious and boiling. When the humidity is this high, there’s usually a storm every afternoon, the clouds a bruised blue, the wind screaming a song that I do, in fact, like very much.

The forecast has called for storms more days this summer than I wish to count. There is never a storm. There is only the moment where the sky darkens and everything shifts and I think, “maybe, maybe, maybe.” But the sacred moment is often gone as quickly as it had come, the blazing sun and oppressive humidity returning only seconds later.

When I was a child and a big storm rolled in, my father would excitedly go out onto the porch to watch it, often with a glass of watered-down scotch. My mother would say his name, her tone high and distressed at whatever possible dangers mothers think can occur when standing on one’s porch in a thunderstorm. (Lighting strike? Flying debris? Tornado? A wind gust with enough strength to carry a grown man away?)

She didn’t like it when I joined him, which was more understandable as the likelihood of me wandering into the yard without my father noticing was fairly high. And out in the yard, anything could happen. (Alright, not anything, but definitely lighting strikes and flying debris; it would be unfair not to give her this one.)

I would stand on the porch, the overhang barely enough to keep my feet from getting drenched, and watch the clouds boil and the rain reach down to the ground. Sometimes the pavement would sizzle with the first few raindrops. Sometimes the wind would throw its head back and howl, and I swore I could hear the songs of other places, wilder places, stranger places.

Anything can happen in a thunderstorm. A tornado can form, the power can go out, a large branch can smash your car or perhaps even your house. A tiny rabbit could seek shelter from the whipping rain on your porch. (This never happened to me, though it sounds nice.) The wind could catch you by your coattails and take you wherever it wanted. I remember watching from the safety of my parents’ porch and thinking that a good thunderstorm can unmake just about anything.

The weather forecast called for storms again today. I wanted them, deliriously, deeply, after so many days of taunting. I watched from the window with a sharp eye, wondering when the world would shift on its axis, when it would turn all silvery-blue and raw.

As I watched, a crack of thunder resounded through my bones like the call of a dead loved one. Raindrops pelted down, showering my hyacinths with shards of glass. In just a few moments, the flowers looked like something from a fey kingdom, their soft pink lost beneath the dancing bruised blue sky, each petal encased in rain-armor. 

And then, as quickly as it began, the thunderstorm stopped—or perhaps it is more accurate to say that it never really started at all. All the conditions were right. The world wanted to slant, to unfold and unmake and undo. But the sun came out and the birds began to chirp. The hyacinths were just hyacinths with a little rain on them. The sky turned that rich summer blue. The pavement dried almost immediately. The thunderstorm hardly left a calling card.

When—if—the next one comes, I’ll be ready with bare feet for the damp slate of my stoop and a tumbler of zero proof gin with elderflower tonic water (imagine, if you will, the condensation on the glass in the summer heat and the way the ice cubes might clink.) 

If you are lucky enough to be in the presence of a thunderstorm soon, I humbly ask that you let it unmake you. 

---

RECENT PUBLICATIONS

if you’re in the mood for more unhinged stuff

“BEFORE I GO” - a flash fiction piece published with Fifth Wheel Press. Doors, madness, longing.

“FOUR OFFERINGS” - a short fiction piece published with The Raven Review. Doves, sacrifices, religious trauma.

---

STUFF THAT HAS MADE ME FEEL SOMETHING (ANYTHING) LATELY

“SPEAR” by NICOLA GRIFFITH: I’m reading this title for my bookshop’s book club and it’s really everything I’ve ever wanted out of an Arthurian legend retelling. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m fucking obsessed with Arthurian myth. I have been since I was a kid. I know a lot of the original stories are ~arguably straight~ but everything about the Arthurian mythos has always felt super queer to me, so it’s nice to see someone pull that thread.

“MANACLED” by SENLIN YU: Please don’t ask me how I ended up back on AO3 after all these years, and most of all, how I ended up on Harry Potter fanfic of all goddamn things. I can’t remember the spiral that led to it honestly, but this story is a RIDE. It’s dark—please carefully review the content warnings—but I don’t remember the last time I was THIS into fanfic.

“DOORS OF PHL” on INSTAGRAM: My friend has begun documenting doors throughout Philly on Instagram. If you don’t know, I’m a big fan of doors (I have one tattooed on me.) This account brings me endless delight and Paige has a great eye for composition. Have a peek if you, too, are into doors.

THE NEW SAVANT CANDLES: A dear friend gave me a gift card to this indie candle company and now I have to blame her entirely for the financial ruin these goddamn candles will bring me. I’m not really the kind of woman regularly in the market for a $38 candle. (Again, I’m a writer and I own an indie bookstore. You do the math.) BUT SHIT, these are the best candles I’ve burned in my life. And I’m mad about it. (Try Androgyne. It’s silk sheets and rose-strewn marble and back seam stockings and Paris.)

{That’s all for now. Until the dark moon returns & the next story blooms. Yours, V.}