The Storm - Volume III

It was a sunny spring morning - the kind that lifts your mood after the long winter. But by noon, dark clouds had rolled across the sky, plunging the day into gloom. I tried to ignore the sinking dread as I watched the squall line advancing rapidly over the fields.

The wind lashed the trees violently as the downpour crashed against the windows. This was no ordinary storm. The glass rattled from the force as if begging to shatter. Gusts ripped shingles off the roof and toppled chairs on the porch.

In the barn, the horses kicked and neighed in terror. I did my best to calm and secure them as the corrugated walls shuddered under the onslaught. We just had to ride it out together. But something about the fury felt almost personal.

Hours later, evening brought no relief as the tempest raged on. Deafening cracks of thunder made my heart freeze. It felt dangerously close. Suddenly, all the lights flickered out, leaving us in darkness broken only by flashes of lightning.

The fear in the horses' eyes mirrored my own. This storm was different - ancient, vindictive. I could not suppress a rising dread that it meant to destroy us all. When a massive oak cracked and fell, crushing half the barn, I knew we were out of options.

Gripping a lantern, I led the horses out into the maelstrom, hoping we might reach shelter down the road. But escaping the wind was impossible. Blinding rain pelted us as we struggled on.

The horses grew terrified, thrashing against their leads. Another lightning strike exploded nearby, the shockwave knocking me to the muddy ground. As I watched helplessly, the horses broke free and disappeared into the darkness.

Battered and despairing, I curled up beside the ruined barn, no longer having the strength to save myself let alone the animals. The tempest swirled around as if savoring its victory. I sobbed an apology to the lost horses for failing to protect them from nature's fury.

As my hopes faded, the winds finally began dying down, the thunder diminishing. The clouds lightened to gray, and the rain slowed to a drizzle. But I took no joy in the storm's passing, only grief at the needless brutality and destruction.

The next morning, I found the horses had returned on their own, heads hung low with exhaustion. We had all made it through, though the storm left scars inside and out. Together we began the slow process of rebuilding and healing.

But each spring now when thunderheads appear on the horizon, unease stirs deep within until the dreaded tempest has moved on. Faith lost so easily is hard to regain. Something about nature's capacity for cruelty changes you. What shelter remains feels fleeting.

For I know we are never truly safe from the raging forces that arrive unbidden. The dark skies that boiled with rage, caring nothing for their wanton annihilation. We can only wait out the violence, picking up the pieces after. And if fortune smiles, finding the strength to carry on.

"The Storm" by Oscar Mendieta Bravo