This was simply an account to honour the torrential downpour that took place for abotu 10 minutes this Monday, just as I was trying to catch a bus. I wrote it up to vent some of my anger as I was desperately trying to dry my soaked clothes and books. Enjoy!
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The weather report forecast light rain.
She took a deep breath and walked out into the wall of water. All around her, nature was rapping to the downpour’s strange rhythm. The trees swayed somewhere beneath a thick cloudy cloak, the earth trembled of fear like a newly hit tambourine. A single puddle stretched across the ground, taut and reverberating underneath the rain like a single bongo drum. Five-gram droplets were beating down on the watery ground, pounding with lateral precision at the single puddle which stretched as far as the eye could see. Mind you, the eye could only see for about an inch – the liquid barricade was absolute and gray and strangely opaque. Nothing could be heard when the skies were making their music.
She rushed onwards, afraid to miss her red bus. The cacophonic roar of the storm left her deafened, disoriented, lost. In the nature’s rock concert, she was too close to the bass player for comfort. She lifted her hand to guide rivulets down her long hair; a waterfall gushed from her coat’s polyester sleeve. She tired to picture the sun (UV index of 4) imprisoned somewhere in the maze of cloud above.
The pressure was rising, but she did not care. Curtains of slightly acidic H2O hung from where the water flowed off her forehead. She was forced by the angry Tlaloc to bow her head in submission to his superior power, if only to avoid the water flooding her eyes and mouth. The Aztec god swooshed his cloak and the resulting gale winds (light out of the southwest, apparently) drove the moisture to lodge deep within the fabric of her jeans. Now she was soaked through. The droplets – daggers of rain – pierced her face and hands, the latter desperately clutching her coat shut over her throat.
She saw no one, except grey hooded figures doubled over against storm, wading through the spring air. The pride of a hard-earned Mercedes riled up a cascade of puddle – mud and water and sludge – its resounding fall, mere inches from her right, left no discernible sound within the bellow of storm all around. She barely minded. Her mind was a solid wall of gray, like the sky above her; only her muscles automatically traced her habitual path to the bus stop. Bored, with all the senses in the world and noting to perceive in this foggy mess, her brain set to contemplating odds, wondering just what a 40% probability of light rain really meant.
She was not worried about today, she was worried about tomorrow: they forecast heavy rain, and it was too late to build an ark.