The storm (by Heather)

The wind howled and the rain pelted down.

Sandi pressed her nose to the glass of the sliding door, watching the drops in the outdoor floodlight as they soared from the sky at a 45 degree angle, then bounced up again right out of the sphere of light. There was a pathetic meow behind her; she turned and gathered her little cat into her lap and spoke quietly to her, scarcely able to hear her own voice over the thundering of the rain on the tin roof overhead.

She wished suddenly that she hadn’t been left at home, left in charge of everything. She was twelve, of course, and perfectly capable of handling anything that could come up, but nonetheless. The storm was the fiercest she’d ever seen in her life. She held her kitten tight.

As she turned back to the glass, there was a dazzling flash of lightning followed sharply by a clap of thunder that jarred her bones. The kitten, just beginning to be old enough to show signs of cat-ness, sprang from her lap and, body held tight against the floor, sprinted across the room and under the sofa. Seconds later, there was a sharp fizzing sound and the lights went out.

The power was off and it was black. The clock on the microwave had disappeared. The dozens of little glowing lights that guided her through the house at nighttime were gone. It was black, charcoal black. Black like when she was little and used to hide in the closet. Black like when she and her dad went camping last year. Black like there was nothing, nothing, nothing in front of her.

Black like there could be ANYTHING in front of her, and she’d never know it was there.