Today’s writing prompt and my response.
The first prompt for the week. Write a poem, a story. Link the prompts into a longer piece. Or simply read and enjoy.
This was something new, something …
Claire strode out front as usual, her long, red curls blowing about her head. The path was muddy, steep. Ginny trailed behind, breathing hard, muttering about why she’d agreed to this far too long walk. She glanced up to the ridge, beyond Claire. Storm clouds were building, heavy with the black promise of icy, squalling rain. Thick black, broiling.
‘Claire!’ Ginny’s voice was swept away by the wind. She waved her walking stick, tried again, adding urgency in the hope her intent might carry where the voice hadn’t. ‘Claire! The storm! We should go back!’
Some subliminal message, or perhaps faint tones of distress, reached her friend. Claire stopped her striding, turned about and pushed the hair from her eyes.
‘Are you ok?’ she shouted down the slope.
Ginny shook her head. ‘The storm! Can’t you see?’
‘What?’
‘The storm!’
Claire threw her head back, laughed. She turned about and continued her brisk climb.
Hell, Ginnny muttered, and stumbled after her. She had no choice, Claire had the car keys.
The path ended at a rocky edge where the land fell sharply away, tufted grass and wildflowers growing among tumbled boulders. Claire waited for her. She didn’t look at Ginny when she arrived, red-faced, panting, leaning on her stick. She went on staring out over the countryside, towards the ocean, a short distance away. Ginny stared too.
She had expected windblown moor and the grey haze of coming rain. This was something new, something forbidding, dangerous. And terrifying.
A swirling cone of cloud, rain, and upswept sea water raced from the ocean, over the landscape. It vanquished daylight, now lit only by silver rods of lightning striking the heaving waves.
Ginny looked at Claire. Her eyes were wide. She was smiling.
‘It’s coming right at us,’ Ginny gasped. ‘What’s amusing? We have to move, get out of its path.’
‘No.’ Claire spread her arms. ‘It’s our storm. To carry us home.’ She took a step forward, moving steadily down the steep slope, bending into the wind.
Ginny watched in horror which became astonishment and, finally, understanding. Her friend’s arms turned to huge wings, her streaming hair thickened, lay close to her lengthening neck. Her body ballooned, stretching long and wide. A jagged tail curled about her, straightened. She rose from the grass, circled, flew high, and dove into the swirling mass.
Ginny laughed, stretched her arms. She stepped forward.
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