" We waited for the storm in the static houses.

'...but the weatherman promised,' you said, insistent, low tremor of your voice like thunder and cereal wrappers through the radio. Darkness took things and twisted them in strange and fantastical permutations: fences into Great Walls, words into warnings, the not-quite-moon above your head pluming into a strange and unholy halo. I should have run.

There was something about this storm.

When rain comes in the night, it brings peace to the lonely, fills 2AM offices with the sound your mother's linen dress made as she tucked you into bed, ...etc etc sad and silent lull etc etc...: for a time, the glide-chug-stamp of the printers are muffled by the sound of laughing, a lullaby, the chime of mothers thinner-limbed and happier.

Not this storm. (This storm was dangerous-)

We saw it coming from a mile away. It sizzled, simmered, murmured half-forgotten hexes so the air around us crackled with a deep and dark magick; we were alive,

we were waiting, we were

dangerous/

beautiful/

insane

and desperate for rain.

Later on I stood outside in the hot, sharp air,

torso bare and cupped by the manic hands of the babbling night,

hair plastered to damp shoulders. "...siren" you whispered

and ~flash~.

the story convolutes and we were back indoors, dark Montague, do you remember?

the house of windows became a house of walls and the NO NO NO of everything we could not do shimmered through the corridors--

i wanted the nightmare, you wanted the awakening, we wanted the terrible paperback tale without the grim resolution

you tried to tell me something but I bit it back down into your lip and clutched you till you swallowed; you

pushed me against the wall until I smiled and said "more"; i

talked time and tarshish into your throat

until your gag reflex kicked in and you slumped by the wall murmuring "the storm, the storm, the storm..." "

- Abeer Mos. E, adapted from "The Rabbit's In The Bush!"