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Old May 5th, 2010, 4:51 am
Albino_Thestral  Female.gif Albino_Thestral is offline
First Year
Join Date: 13th July 2009
Location: Forbidden Forest
Age: 24
Posts: 20
Reckless, Foolish, Conceited Storm

This is just an essay/short story I had to write in English class a few weeks ago, and I really LOVE critique on it. Hope y'all like!

Feedback may be posted here ->

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If a storm was a feeling, it would be the ominous dread before the biting rain it releases upon our skin like a vast array of stinging hornets. The feeling of forbiddance that penetrates our body to shake our soul and leave our knees trembling in fear of being washed away with the runoff. Of being turned to a flood that soaks the parched ground. The feeling of a storm is fear. A storm is a conceited mess of clouds and lightning, something too proud and bold, too full of its own brooding glory that it can hardly see past its churning mist as it rumbles to itself about how great it’s own power is.

When a storm is seen, it bolters its image to be quite large, and fills the sky like rainwater fills an empty bucket. But to truly see a storm, you must be able to smell it. The vaporous intruder of sky space would commonly be described as being under-toned with the odor of rain by most people. But a few problems conflict with these assumptions, and those knots in the plot include: I’m not most people. And a storm is not rain. The droplets of precipitation are mere intruders in the vast body of the sky’s jester. Parasites that squirm in its form as it itches to release them. So, if a storm is not rain, then its smell is not water. No, the rumbling intruder enhances the stink of buzzing electricity as the energy sparks and hisses, the hyperactive electrons bursting into candlized light when they collide. The burning odor is what signals the flight instinct in us. The fear of such a mighty best, so high above us, yet so close to our own heads that we quiver in terror. Such a great, crowding horror in the sky.

And a storm is a horror film in the making. A storm brings forth the screams of children as it booms out oppressing laughter at the sound of such a pure soul fearing it’s great, ebony faded mass. A storm does not cackle. It’s minions cackle as they crash into one another, drunken from such amounts of enthusiasm. But the problem with a storm is that it is bold. And with boldness, recklessness follows. As confidence sprouts, the storm begins to fumble. Its careless mistakes become more and more dramatic. It starts to drift over lands that can corrupt its image. Lands where the heat of the atmosphere destroys it’s fine gates and make the wind begin to howl with the intruder’s pain. Great globs of wet tears fall from its sickly grey skin.
A storm has such unrelenting fury that when the loss of its battle with light and heat is evident, it begins to screech like a witch of Western origin. Or, Eastern, if you prefer your witches more proper.
When the rain and clouds fade like a forgotten memory, whether its shrieks plagues human ears for thirty minutes or forty days, there’s always one thing that appears in the shadow of a conquered storm. A symbol of hope. A rainbow.

But, that’s another story.


Tulio: I will give you the honor of a quick and painless death!
[Grabs tiny dagger, looks at it]
But not with that.

I am in Slytherin. Fear me.

Last edited by Albino_Thestral; May 7th, 2010 at 6:54 pm. Reason: Needed to add link
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