The raging child

A short story

Image: „Starry Night“, Vincent Van Gogh

It was a dark and stormy night. The moon has decided to avoid it and the sun tried to disappear as fast as she could.

Sometimes doom is a vague apprehension. And as the night dropped the world, the apprehension became a certainty. It took off its black coat, covered the world with it and took a deep breath for the first anger.

The last leaves on the trees, which had just managed to cling to where they used to be, were torn away, twirled around and pushed into corners, where they couldn’t escape.

With the same breath the night blew loose sand from the fields, threw it on the walls, houses and windows, scratched across roofs and swept across the streets. The wind whistled in high tones through alleys and houses.

It was senseless to fight against the rage. The cold breath of the night struck forcefully the sticky air of the last day.

The night struck falling branches on roofs, carelessly placed dustbin liners were smacked against walls und loose roof tiles were torn out and tossed around.

After it vented its first anger, the night sat down to the world and drummed a hailstorm on it. Each pebble beats like fists and demolishes cars, sneaks through windows and hits lonely souls, who do not made it into a shelter.

As the night realized what it had done, the hail turned into rain. Thick drops formed rills that became to streams and flowed into rivers. The water flooded the banks, roads and the gardens resembled bogs.

The anger was to blame. As the night realized that, it was furious with anger it glared at the world with lightning. A thunderbolt rumbled over the country and every living being felt the deep anger in the form of goose bumps and vibrating glasses and windows.

After a short, breathtaking pause thunderbolts followed the lighting like cannon beats. They hit boulders, mountains, trees and houses. The whole country was trembled. Flickering lights, fuses jumped out and after a few minutes the country lay in deep darkness.

As the last outburst of fury were gone, the night fell out of air. A light breeze blew over the country and the last raindrops fell easily to the ground. The night crawled slowly behind the horizon, laid down and fell asleep.

As the day broke, and the sun rose hesitantly, as if she had not really known whether it was safe or not, the birds twittered and the remains of the night were tidied up.

In the West delicate clouds streaked over the night, who was now asleep.

Translated from German

Image: „Starry Night“, Vincent Van Gogh

These and other short stories can be read on the (german) blog of the writing group