On Wednesdays nights I have been attenting a creative writing night class at Seminole Community College, taught by Ruth Cuthbert. As an assignment, we were asked to write 2oo words on the subject of clouds. We were told to attack this assignment from any angle at all.

Late last Tuesday night, I stared blankly at the untitled Word document on the screen before me, repeatedly and needlessly reminding myself of how much I hate time limits. I especially hate such bleak, vague prompts. If you're turning to a prompt, you're probably seeking help sparking a fresh peice of writing. If the prompt is bland, how can it spark vibrant, explosive, and unusual thinking? Prompts which are less vague work a lot better for me, personally.

Anyway, I managed to pump out 200 words on the subject of clouds. I wrote from the p.o.v. of a storm cloud who's holding a grudge against humans. I have yet to get feedback from Cuthbert. As always, any & all feedback is greatly appreciated.

A Storm Cloud Monologue

I am at my heaviest at this moment. I want nothing more than to pour, to become torrential rain, to leave this immeasurable sky and run like a streaker through the streets of some tiny town who will be paralyzed by my size. I want to flood the asphalt; just rain till I reach the windows, which will crack quickly under the pressure. Inside, I’ll soak the couch cushions and mattresses, seep into electrical outlets. I’ll ruin important papers and photographs, in the backgrounds of which I strike poses that no one ever seems to notice. So instead I’ll send a few hot bolts rushing toward the tops of leafless trees. Maybe then they’ll know I’m up here.

I daydream about destruction constantly, but rarely do I discuss it. Not since that cumulonimbus bastard saw me pick a pesky airplane from my backside and flick it back down to earth. Those things carry, what? 100, 120 humans tops. It’s not like they’re going extinct. Unfortunately. But he just fell apart at the sight, sprinkling down on some useless patch of flatland. After that, I knew to keep it to myself and be patient. My day will come.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate humans because I’m a Storm Cloud or anything like that. Humans just don’t care; they don’t pay attention. Sure they have the Weather Channel, but those perky little fellers that call themselves meteorologists, they don’t know me. They just think they do. But little do they know the most pissed off storm of their lives is preparing to hit.

I feel my belly swell and I feel giddy. Today is my day. My day. I scope the ground twenty thousand feet below me to see which lucky country will endure my wrath, but when I do, I wish so bad I had a mouth from which to excrete screams within me, as I pour like salty tears into the middle of the ocean.