Wise ones learn to know the storms.
One. Hoofbeats like thunder. A press in the air, the desperation of a thousand hungry men. Copper and steel, raw throats, dirt churned to mud underfoot. The first is war.
Two. It starts with whispers; the wise feel it coming, duck their heads and go to ground. Soon the voices are audible, susurrations become earthquakes, and even Kings will topple. Two truths defeat a lie.
Three. Sweet supplicating violence, last gasp of loneliness, hands twined as one and hearts that beat staccato rhythms. Three grapples with love.
Four. Pain like coming home, sweet breath and desperate gasps. Gone is the warmth, safety, surety; now, something far more sublime. Four is living, breathing flesh.
Five. The sky screams. Rain lashes leaves and lumps of hail mark the ground with unrelenting violence. Wind, physical thing, wreaks its wrath on tender flesh. Hidden, huddled masses, small against the endless sky, wait out the fury. Fierce weather makes five.
One for blood, two for truth, three for love, four for birth. Five for winds, rains and snows; quick and count the Storm Crows.
I wrote this piece for a postcard fiction contest. It didn’t win, but I thought I would share it with you nonetheless. Image is from Amber Ladley, who generously made it available for free on StockSnap.io.