Last summer i began writing a short story about a hailstorm. Today i pulled it out again to reacquaint myself with it, as i mean to finish it this summer. Here are a few sentences, none of which i remember writing.
“He still called it a river, although the strict definition of a river involved water and thus he was stretching the truth somewhat.”
“But the drought had driven [the fireflies] away. They could not breed in the dust of the riverbed; their lights dimmed and went out, and the long years since had lost something of their magic. The earth became simply earth, the grass withered and grew yellow, and silence descended into muteness. The earth had stopped speaking.”
“The screen door screeched and banged again, protesting against the work for which it was created.”
“When it came, the thunderclap was loud enough to shake the house, and drops of rain fat as field mice fell from the sky like the sudden descent of the apocalypse.”
“His skin tingled with the charge in the air; the hair on his head and his arms stretched toward the heavens as if pleading with the black clouds to stop their vicious assault.”
“And still the hail poured from the heavens as if it desired the land below, as if no speed was adequate to the joy of arrival.”