#It’ll be midnight of the 26th of October (somewhere in Australia) at the time of posting if I have this scheduled correctly!
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katkat030 · 1 month ago
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The Calm of the Storm
written for day 26 of @definitelynotshouting's definitelynottober2024 prompts, the light that blinds.
There’s a storm on the horizon, and the feeling of it is heavy, humidity clinging to every breath and the air weighing more than it did a day past. A bank of clouds paint the sky in a stretch of grey so dark it looks purple, crisscrossed with sweeping voltage lines that arc from pole to pole like poetry. 
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Charge hums. It’s both the lullaby of power lines and different, two sides of the same coin, a storm on the horizon and a resonating buzz that knocks gently on the doors of bones, carves out a hollow, and seeps in to curl up politely at the feet of an idle soul. 
Enveloped in it all, Christmas beetles chirp, and it sounds like an orchestra, violins at the ready. They can still be heard in their silence, an ensemble counting rests with poised bows, filling the air not with sound but the faint imprint of it that lingers like the feelings at the core of a memory whose exacts are lost to time. They sing of anticipation, and the sweet note of their pause says something is coming this way.
There’s a storm on the horizon, and the feeling of it is heavy, humidity clinging to every breath and the air weighing more than it did a day past. A bank of clouds paint the sky in a stretch of grey so dark it looks purple, crisscrossed with sweeping voltage lines that arc from pole to pole like poetry. 
If this is a song, then the gathering of its precursors are the bridge, and if this is the human body, they are the ribs under which the heart beats. 
The first strike to split the sky is a herald, and it’s a promise of more to come. It meets the ground with barely a whisper and it’s erased just a blink later. The air holds its breath while the world turns as it always does beneath, not one to stop on anyone’s account.
The storm isn’t coming because the storm is already here, thunder a few seconds to playfully chase the heels of every arc of light that races to tag the ground. It weaves a symphony from Summer breeze, citrus-sweet humidity and lightning’s silent, staccato beats. 
At the edges of it all, a cliff face, mapped to a tossing ocean. 
A darkness to rival the crow’s feather black of the night–it, too, only illuminated in flashes carried in second-quick, branching veins–the sea turns over itself and over itself and rushes once more to hammer against the unyielding wall of stone. 
A dampening hand pressed softly to a cymbal crash, the storm dissipates, the harmonised hum of power lines remaining as the weighted blanket of rolling thunder recedes into a soft nothingness. The restless breaking of waves in the distance and the faint drone of electricity soothe the night to slumber.
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Atmosphere building practice inspired by the most gorgeous corner of the world I've ever visited.
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