A Lightning Strike
In the blink of a second, the heavens rend themselves open, and a spear of light is hurled to the earth. It is not a mere flash—it is the wrath of the sky made manifest, a celestial scream that illuminates the world in ghostly brilliance. The air becomes alive, vibrating with an unspoken tension, as if every molecule is holding its breath in reverence or fear.
The lightning does not fall; it descends like a vengeful god, its path jagged yet purposeful, as though it were carving its name into the fabric of the storm. The sky blazes, for an instant, with a light so pure it blinds and burns, revealing secrets the shadows had jealously guarded. Beneath its gaze, the world seems frozen, a tableau caught in the grip of something ancient and unknowable.
When it strikes, the earth shudders as if wounded. Trees are not merely split—they are marked, as though the lightning’s touch carried a curse. Stones hum with a heat that was not theirs to bear. The very air itself seems to ignite, leaving behind a whisper of ozone, faint but charged, as though the breath of a storm spirit lingered on the breeze.
The sound follows, not as mere thunder but as the roar of the storm’s triumph. It rolls across the land, shaking rooftops and startling creatures from their dens. Birds wheel in the sky like scraps of torn paper caught in the gale, their cries swallowed by the storm’s unrelenting voice.
And then, as suddenly as it came, the lightning is gone, leaving the earth smoldering in its wake. But it has left more than charred bark and trembling hearts. It has left the memory of its dance—wild, untamed, and glorious—a moment that feels eternal despite its fleeting nature.
In the afterglow, the storm breathes again, its winds quieter now, as if exhausted from the fury of its outburst. But the world remembers. The strike may have been only a second, but in its wake, it leaves the imprint of a story written in fire and light, as though the gods themselves paused to inscribe their will upon the earth.