Outside the clouds pile up like laundry, dirty, grey, tumbling on top of one another, decisively blotting out the sunshine so that the sun itself reminisces the moon, holding no danger to the naked eye.
Along with the accumulation, the sky's pitch changes into a minacious hue at once both an overripe green and a dusty road stopping in a deadend. As lighter clouds enter into the scene, like vinegar and soda, they brew up a storm.
Enceinte drops of water splash down into the graveled street only recently burried under drifts of snow; tiny bombs lobbed by devilish rainclouds. Carpenter and Black ants alike scurry deeper into their newly excavated nests, running along pretzeled tunnels before the rain swells their entrances shut.
The air, perfumed with an organic grime, grows dense with falling rain. Trees stand like wild women, arms outstretched, as they catch the first flying drops with their leafy hands. And the old mallard lets down its guard, coaxing downy balls of fluff into the pond to turn, bill under webbed toes, learning to fish for minnows.
Prompts for May 12, due by May 18:
- Use the words pitch, guard, and pretzel
- No humans are aloud to talk or have their thoughts voiced
- Allow the season of your piece to be prominent
- tag with gwwe