A Gathering Storm

By Pilar Lu-Heda

I wrote this piece as a 200-word exercise but ended up liking it enough to continue it. Like it or not, here goes.

We made fairy houses out of cardboard when the world was shiny and new. Rain boots
sunk into freshly dewy grass and fingertips grazed the mellow May breeze. Gates swung and
smiled upon our eager faces. The world was our stage.

We found happiness in simpler things. Promises and tree houses. Melting ice cream and
friendship bracelets. Woven with much more than craft strings and plastic charms, they held our
pasts and what we wished our futures would be. But threads do not stay bound forever and frays
turn to rips.

Now, we sit under the willow, the sunlight dappled through the branches. All is forgiven.
The wind and birds sing together in our moment, weaving in and out of harmony. They sing an
old song. I know the tune but not the words. The notes creep into my mind, erasing all other
thoughts. I feel panic rise in my chest. Why can’t I think? The breeze shushes my mind,
reprimanding it for not remaining idle and letting the light soak into my body. The air smells like
fresh earth. A newly placed bracelet glints softly in the splatters of light. When was the last time 
I was outside like this? Somehow I don’t care to find the details in the back of my mind. Am I awake?
We are blissfully unaware of the storm lurking and threatening to swallow our world until
it arrives.

The flowers between my fingers curl away, shrinking into dust. A hand tugs mine and we
run. To what? I can’t remember. The dust swirls around us, like a sick tornado, chasing me and
diving away. I try to swat it away but it circles my head. The tune grows stronger. I look up but
the swirl of dust attacks me as the tune surges to a pulsing ring. The bracelet rips and flutters into
the dust. I reach out. Where are you? The tears don’t have time to fall. The ringing subsides.

Silence.

I’m awake. The clock above the window ticks on, dragging out the minutes. The room is
remarkably quiet; the only noises are the clock’s steady ticking and the drowsy drizzle of rain
sliding down the roof. As if I don’t already know the answer, I pull my wrist from the tangle of
covers. No bracelet.