by Jen Brubacher
The lightning preferred her. This is what they said, later: it hit the statue of Mayor Ney first and found too much resistance, and Adeline was right there, so it splashed her. They said that, too: splashed, as if it was a kick of cool water. Playful, even.
In a moment she was deaf. She strained and realized that although she thought she’d thrown her hands up to her ears, to her eyes, she hadn’t moved at all. Adeline was paralyzed. She was looking at the statue of Mayor Ney with his big hat and his broken sword, and she couldn’t look away. The clouds above his head cracked open and blue sky shone through so bright it seemed it should have made a noise, but there was no noise, even from the shouting face that appeared in front of her.
Her brother’s eyes were wide and his mouth kept moving. Silence. Lovely silence. And light shining over their heads, brilliant, like a wash of blue water. A splash.
I have always been fascinated by the idea of splash lightning. Whoever invented the term had a very interesting mind.
Photo by Arielle Fragassi on flickr