Love. Thunder. JENGA!
Written by: Derrick Adams
Love. A word the spreads more pain than the Grim Reaper himself. I felt it once, only once, only but for a short second.
Thunder fills the dark blue sky, swiping every half second at whatever it can get its hands on. I stare at it. Thunder. It’s like, it’s like Hell trying open its way unto earth, it tries and tries, but it's no match for the light as it returns minutes later.
Sometimes the thunder, it lasts hours; those can be the scariest of hours because, it makes the future feel unpredictable, like life and death, balancing itself on a see-saw. Eventually the good wins; but for how long exactly? Until the next storm? When the hounds of the underground strike back with its force taking with them as much as they can, whether it be human life or the retched soul of the earth that keeps us living?
I continue to stare, listen and feel. This could be the final storm, the storm of the century, of the millennium; that which happens behind closed doors, in the light and darkness that we humanity can’t see, bears the power of true unpredictability.
I lay my hands on the vibrating glass, to get a glimpse of such war and evil; I can’t help but grin with my eyes closed.
Power ceases, so do my closed-eyed evil grinned look, but just for a second, so I can light a candle. Light, that’s how he wins. I throw my matchbook in the sink and turn it on, making it useless, like the thunder.
A rumble shakes the ground. I’m on the 47th floor of my building, every rumble is an earthquake. The tower of Jenga that sits on my coffee table tumbles, making a ruckus. I stare at it, the fallen blocks scattered, broken and dead. They lay there lifeless. There’s another rumble. A single block falls from the table, knocking, and making a sound on my pristine hardwood floors. I pick it up, the lonely block, as the building continues to quake. There’s going to be an impending and thunderous line of destruction; a critical hit. Trees heard exploding down below, crushing a car or two. I sit up, block still in hand.
At my feet, I glance out down to the street. A fire ensued. One casualty, two injured. The half grin returns as I look to my hand to see the block within the grips of my palm.
Am I a bad person? A sadistic, malevolent human embodiment of a thunderous slash? The Devil’s sword? Or just an excited and eccentric psychopath whose gripping a Jenga block so tight that the loss of blood circulation in my hand makes it an odd rotten yellow fade?
In an instant I whip the block at my window so hard the window begins to break, slowly beginning to shatter.
In this half second of thought, there’s a rumble followed by a deafening zap that swoops me off my feet. I hit the floor so fast I cracked the back of my skull in three places, at least it feels like three places. Blood seeps through the crevices of my broken head, dripping onto my floor.
The Jenga block that was thrown, now falling towards the ground, travelling at roughly 100 miles an hour and constantly building up its speed. It hits the pavement, initializing a set of cracks throughout the sidewalk breaking a water valve cover, spewing H20 roughly 20 feet in the air.
The chaos, it’s quite something. The Thunder, stops however. The skies clear and the rain subsides. Streets invaded with the water from the broken pipe caused by the Jenga block.
In this half second of non-stop unpredictability, I die, my heart stops, followed by my vision. Last was my hearing, and all that’s heard in the streets below is the aftermath of said hellacious brutality, making its silence, unbearably loud and heavy.
And me, dead, I’ve still never felt so alive; so, in love…
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