There was a tremendous storm. It was terrifying and wonderful. Deafening thunder claps, breaking sharply and abruptly, before rumbling ominously in their joyously apocalyptic way.
The wind rising as the skies darkened, threatening imminent destruction. Glorious bolts of lightning tearing across the firmament.
To Whippoorwill, it was unutterably beautiful. S[he] smiled. It was real. [S]he could trust the storm, s[he] knew what it was and what it could do.
Whippoorwill loved thunderstorms.
As [s]he stood outside enjoying the display, s[he] recalled an incident from [he]r youth.
Two buses filled with children armed with hockey sticks and childish vitality. Keen to play their game, but held in check by such a storm.
A coach known to all as ‘Fatty’, running to the opposing teams bus in the torrential rain. Holding the Saturday morning newspaper over his head to no effect. Ducking for some reason.
Then the bolt.
Then Fatty, dead on the ground. The rain still pouring.
The Saturday morning newspaper lending little protection. Neither from the rain nor the bolt. Nor death.
Then, the opposing coach braving the downpour and gingerly confirming Fatty’s fate. Before entering our bus and telling us to stay put while he called an ambulance.
There was no point. The ambulance could not save Fatty now. It was all over for Fatty.
Whippoorwill wondered if such a bolt might find [he]r today. Not that s[he] dwelt morbidly on the notion. Oh no. S[he] merely wondered.
And smiled fondly.
Poor Fatty. How he loved hockey.