The Storm Personified

Her clothing felt hot, tight, constricting as the dreamer felt for the zippers. There were none. The humid air surrounding her was thick, swampy, kinetic. Her lithe body, long and slim, shoulder-length hair, frazzled, floated gently above a white city made entirely of plaster of Paris. The chalky scent combined with the drying agents as the world beneath her cured, baked, solidified.

She struggled to turn her gaze downward, her buoyancy inescapable. With nothing to grasp, hold, grip, turning was not an option. Her bed of clouds, comfy as a crib, confident as a casket, confined her. She is a force, the air, the wind, the water bringer and she is where she has always been. Comforted in her sky cocoon, in balance. The plaster city though, was new.

Straining her neck and looking through the outermost periphery of her stretched eyes, she could see the city growing. Tiny gypsum buildings grew inch by inch while other blocks fell in little puffs of dust, only to be replaced a moment later by taller structures.

Were they building towards her? Perhaps a toehold to give her purchase to face them and shower them with her appreciation. But no, these buildings did not seem to grow according to the pattern, the plan, ordered ideals. When one fell, the next to rise could be miles away. Not a rescue, but merely industry.

Once the people’s songs had been enough to turn her gaze. She was free to hear them, grant them boons, before the plaster was underfoot, back when the world had been loam, stone, verdant. But the water bringer could not remember. Without the music, the dreamer slept again.

Awake, the sting of industry, irritation, burning, blocked only by the wetsuit, cloth frayed, failing, leaking. The city below became dirtied, soot-covered, stale. No more rising buildings, but outward sprawl. The plaster spilling from the bucket over lands unsuitable. The earth crunchy, dead, dry. Her rain unable to pass through the plaster to make its way to the sea through the underground ways.

Soon the dreamer would have nowhere to touch down without damaging the plaster. She needed to wake up, escape this crib, do no harm. Still lying on her back, with a tentative stretch, she placed one foot down on the earth, a forested section with no plaster. It felt soft. It bent. This was a good start. “First tornado in 100 years in upstate New York!” flashed through the radio waves permeating the sleeper. She answered this new song in kind: lightning, thunder, static. Finally communication.

With her left hand, she delicately reached for a section of plaster devoid of high buildings, testing the plaster’s strength under her splayed fingers. Forefinger and thumb holding her weight, she pressed down firmly. A hole erupted below the plaster city. Apparently, the top layer had been built over caves, holes, anthill. The radio waves erupted, the words “bridge collapse” and “sinkhole” flashed through her consciousness on the bands reserved for law, help, fire.

She retracted her hand, one foot still on the ground. She had to get up to leave, find greener pastures and wild lands. The plaster city didn’t need her water, gifts, boons.

Seeing a lake, she placed her left palm firmly in the center. She used her foot and palm to shift her weight and flip over onto her belly, still floating over the plaster city. Below her the gypsum started to wilt and sag, radio bulletins containing flashes of “Flood,” “Torrential,” and “Once in a Lifetime Storm” played through her mind.

Well, she was committed now. She would get out of the way. She would escape this city without harming it any further. She kicked off with the foot still touching the earth. A sundering shudder ran through the landscape, plaster crumbling and falling into the white slurry below, but she couldn’t get any momentum and floated to a soft stop still over the city.

Her right hand sought a grip, something to tether her to the earth so she could pull herself forward, escape her cradle, become unbridled, do no harm. Finding the U-shaped hold of the dam, she gripped firmly, but the plaster turned to dust in her grip. The dam broke. The water sought balance.

“Freedom!” The old river cried in her mind as it tore a new path through the wet white slip coating the ground.

Right hand flailing she sought a firmer hold as she floated upward, panic gripped. Everywhere her fingers touched, spirals, swirls, howling winds. Death, destruction, “Tornado!” flashed over the radio waves, more frantic now, hard to separate.

She was committed. All these half steps were only making the damage worse. She put both knees down on the map, plaster crunching beneath them. Her kneeling position allowed her to sink down to earth like a swimmer in a pool. The powdery remains of buildings yielded to her weight. She would stand. She would walk. Change location after millennia.

Being this low to the ground, miasma greeted her. The smoke of fires distant choked her, the wetsuit burned away, the acrid air above the city deprived her, the skies unreachable, renewal impossible.

She gathered her resolve, remembering her old names in the ancient tongue. I am the storm, the tornado, the tsunami. I am the fear-bringer, the destroyer. I am the dreamer, the life-giver, the granter of boons. I am unforgiving. I give freely. I am sky mother. I am the Colossus. I must march relentlessly to the sea.

But she faltered. Her old strength diminished by the thousands of tiny cuts inflicted by those below. Her armor sundered, she had no protection from the choking gases. She convulsed, massive bulk falling on the city. Stretching out her hand, she listened for songs, prayers, humanity. She heard denial, excuses, greed.

“I love you,” the dreamer thought as she remembered the old songs, now deaf. She would not slumber again. Water poured from thousands of tears in her skin, plaster diluted infinitely into the endless ocean. The city swept away like so many sandcastles. Rolling onto her back, she looked up to the empty sky and died.

Author’s Note

I wanted to write a story from the perspective of a weather pattern experiencing human civilization in geologic time. Flashes of consciousness a few minutes long would reflect hundreds of years of society developing below her, a view of the anthill that is New York City forming by the sea.

When the climate was in balance, people prayed to her for rain. I like to think that she listened.

She exists in the form of a sleeper on her back high in the clouds. As humans create more and more changes to the world below, she wakes in different states — fog, haze, rain, storm.

In my dream, similar to the sleeper I was suspended over a city. I could feel the crunch of skyscrapers whenever I tried to put a foot down. That feeling and sound, even from a dream, stuck with me for many years.

We talk about the temperature rising, floods, fires, out of control storms as if they are separate events. They aren’t. Changes to the invisible winds and the jet stream are just as important, if not as apparent.

Writing about a benevolent god who only wanted to protect her people being brought down to earth by a thousand tiny cuts felt like the best metaphor. I’ve lived through these changing patterns and seen tornados appear where none should.

This story won’t be for everybody. The alien perspective of a benevolent titan was a challenge, and it felt good to write it. I hope it was enjoyable.