Cecelia’s Personal Storm

Somewhere outside, someone—or something—was wailing. A blizzard was due, and Cecelia wondered if perhaps it was a banshee warning the neighborhood of impending danger and death. Just then,

the wailing acutely subsided. Was the weather forecast wrong after all? Her tense shoulders slumped down as she relaxed. But she let down her guard too early. The wuthering winds slammed back, wailing even harder through the now broken windows. Cecelia's paintings were ripped

off the walls and fell to the floor. Her pottery was blown off its pedestal and smashed. It was almost like the weather wanted Cecelia’s art gallery to go under.

She slammed her fists against the floor and cursed under her breath. She’s just opened this art gallery. Worked two crappy jobs for over seven years just to afford it, and now this. Where did weather like this even come from? It was almost supernatural.

Suddenly a storm of terrible wind and ice fell on her. It was as if her anger was controlling the storm. She couldn’t believe it. As she calmed herself the storm calmed as well.

At this her emotions rebounded and an overwhelming love infused her spirit. The skies responded accordingly. Clouds evaporated as if time itself had hastened and the sun basked within an endless plane of azure, gently casting down a cherishing warmth upon all below the firmament.