When the sky became angry, Allister became jubilant. The clouds would gray and Allister would crack that wry smile that so many got to know throughout Allister's life. The sky would open up and pour rain, the thunder would shout. It was the only time you could see the atmosphere throw a fit. To see the sky cry and the clouds yell and the lightning pound its fist into trees. Who would not appreciate this? The world can remain quiet for so long and in these storms, it finally speaks.
Allister would wait for the sky to darken a deeper shade of gray. He would wait for the lightning to strike and thunder to boom and he would rise from his seat ever so carefully. If you had ever sat next to Allister, you could most surely attest that this happened each and every thunderstorm without fail. Allister would be engaged in full conversation and he would hear the thunder. And, if you were looking into his eyes, you could see the change. See the irises and the pupils change. One moment intent on human conversation and the next, on cue from the sky, they ingested the challenge-as if his very orbs were stung by that first flash of lightning. There would be no more conversation. This would have to be put on hold. If you knew Allister, you knew that.
He would leave the table (if a table had indeed been present). He would walk out the front door as calm and upright as ever. He would grab no coat, no umbrella. He would simply walk out into the storm, into the area where he believed the shouting to be from. He would look to the sky and wait for the next boom and the next strike, giving the sky one more chance to speak its mind. Then, as if on cue, Allister would launch into his rebuttal. And looking from the window, you could see Allister standing in a meadow (if a meadow were indeed present) or a street (likewise), shouting at the sky. And there would be no denying that the sky would shout back at Allister. To distinguish whose thunder was loudest required instruments of the most refined quality and these never seemed to be present (for who would have such instruments and who, if they indeed had such instruments, would always carry them on their person in case they should meet Allister meeting a thunderstorm).
To the crescendo of shouts and thunder, were choreographed lightning strikes from the sky and fist pounding and stomping from Allister. If the sky should send lightning to take down a tree, Allister would send a fist to take down a twig. The size of the strike seemed to matter little. For the sky and Allister, it was all relative. Of what they were yelling, of why they were mad, no one knew. Some say that Allister shouted about fairness and the sky about respect. But, who can really say in matters like this (for my own part, I found most of Allister's shouts to be made of pure jibberish).
The end of the argument was simple. The lightning would give way. Allister would calm, his body refraining from both punches and kicks. And they would both cry. You could not tell who cried first and you could not tell whether it was anger or joy because the tears came with laughter and dancing. The sky would boom bass laughter and Allister, his baritone chuckle. A harmonic melody only heard after the storm had quieted. This continued until the sun shone once more.
Allister would walk back inside as upright as when he had left, sit at the table soaking wet, and pick up the conversation right where it had been left. You may argue (though not with me) that the atmosphere dictated the argument. That it started with the darkening of clouds and the thunder and that it finished with the quieting of the thunder and the revealing of the sun. But, I know it to be different. I know the argument to be a tie, that they had both reached victory. Both points were understood (though neither sky nor Allister understood their own points). Both needed to pour. And since Allister left, I have witnessed many storms. And believe me or do not, but I feel as though the storms, hard as they may strike, now come with a longing. The sky is waiting for its next counterpart. Someone out there must know the script.
Allister would wait for the sky to darken a deeper shade of gray. He would wait for the lightning to strike and thunder to boom and he would rise from his seat ever so carefully. If you had ever sat next to Allister, you could most surely attest that this happened each and every thunderstorm without fail. Allister would be engaged in full conversation and he would hear the thunder. And, if you were looking into his eyes, you could see the change. See the irises and the pupils change. One moment intent on human conversation and the next, on cue from the sky, they ingested the challenge-as if his very orbs were stung by that first flash of lightning. There would be no more conversation. This would have to be put on hold. If you knew Allister, you knew that.
He would leave the table (if a table had indeed been present). He would walk out the front door as calm and upright as ever. He would grab no coat, no umbrella. He would simply walk out into the storm, into the area where he believed the shouting to be from. He would look to the sky and wait for the next boom and the next strike, giving the sky one more chance to speak its mind. Then, as if on cue, Allister would launch into his rebuttal. And looking from the window, you could see Allister standing in a meadow (if a meadow were indeed present) or a street (likewise), shouting at the sky. And there would be no denying that the sky would shout back at Allister. To distinguish whose thunder was loudest required instruments of the most refined quality and these never seemed to be present (for who would have such instruments and who, if they indeed had such instruments, would always carry them on their person in case they should meet Allister meeting a thunderstorm).
To the crescendo of shouts and thunder, were choreographed lightning strikes from the sky and fist pounding and stomping from Allister. If the sky should send lightning to take down a tree, Allister would send a fist to take down a twig. The size of the strike seemed to matter little. For the sky and Allister, it was all relative. Of what they were yelling, of why they were mad, no one knew. Some say that Allister shouted about fairness and the sky about respect. But, who can really say in matters like this (for my own part, I found most of Allister's shouts to be made of pure jibberish).
The end of the argument was simple. The lightning would give way. Allister would calm, his body refraining from both punches and kicks. And they would both cry. You could not tell who cried first and you could not tell whether it was anger or joy because the tears came with laughter and dancing. The sky would boom bass laughter and Allister, his baritone chuckle. A harmonic melody only heard after the storm had quieted. This continued until the sun shone once more.
Allister would walk back inside as upright as when he had left, sit at the table soaking wet, and pick up the conversation right where it had been left. You may argue (though not with me) that the atmosphere dictated the argument. That it started with the darkening of clouds and the thunder and that it finished with the quieting of the thunder and the revealing of the sun. But, I know it to be different. I know the argument to be a tie, that they had both reached victory. Both points were understood (though neither sky nor Allister understood their own points). Both needed to pour. And since Allister left, I have witnessed many storms. And believe me or do not, but I feel as though the storms, hard as they may strike, now come with a longing. The sky is waiting for its next counterpart. Someone out there must know the script.
RSS Feed