Gleaming metal rests upon the concrete floor of the city, an edifice of man-made strength leaping towards the heavens above. The skyscraper lives up to its name, etching its silhouette across the storm-wracked, lightning-torn night.
Samantha looks out from the top floor, gazing down upon the city below. Her suit is impeccable, her features flawless and cold. She is one of many, and this is her city, and it is her duty to keep it in check.
The rains cleanse. This has been known since the dawn of time, since shamans and druids spoke to the earth and the sky, calling on the spirits of nature to keep man alive against the terrible wrath of the world.
It is her duty to remind man of his fragility. She is one of many, all trained in the ancient arts and stationed around the world. Three things they do – they watch, they judge, and they call the storms.
Lightning flares across the sky. Winds howl, rattling shutters and waking children from fearful dreams into fearful reality. Torrential rain cascades across the roofdrops, the drumming sound steady and endless and undeniable.
From the highest window in the city she stands and watches her handiwork. She does not smile – this is not something she does for joy. She does it because she has to.
The storm howls across the city, and man trembles.
The bells toll ten, and all is well.
Short Little Stories 