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Housing Thunder

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The sky was molting to a deep bruise of blacks and blues, punched hard by the thick tops of jade colored trees. The air pressured heavily, pushing a thick, damp taste through the mouths of the trees and thick sod smelling grasses of gradual browning.

The house molding in the center of such an eventual storm felt like a slowly drying sponge to the strong hands of the wind. It's windows rattled in a terrifying assurence that they would soon burst, shooting jaggid spikes to stab the wind in an attempt to stop its relentless attack to push the home to its knees.

No jacket could sheild from such freezing temperatures, and to the wind, that was the point. For they battled quite often, the wind and the home; great forging wars of will took place in the vast clearing of walls of trees.

Such a storm as the one soon to take place was the drummer boy to the battles. The thunder sounding deep as a warning for any who may try to enter the arena. The lightning stirking in sparking pain as either fighter was injured.

Though, the storm could tell such a brewing battle would be the last between the house and the wind. One would win and one would loose, and even the storm itself was nervous of what may happen during such a duel. The trees swayed back on their roots to allow them more room, the grass matted to the ground in ducking cover, the storm sturred in nervous twitches, all in anticipation of what may occur once their battle began to unfold.

Soon the storm began to flutter more violently, the wind was in tow as the house hardened its braces. And with the secure first charge, the wind pushed hearty against the house's side. Though, the house stood its ground easily, and as a counter, the house pushed hard against a sharp turn in the wind, and as the house had hoped, the wind stumbled.

Back and forth in increasing intensity and force the wind and house battled. The thunder roared and the lightning spazommed.

For hours on the storm sounded, for days, for months, for more than a year was this was waged. The wind and the home both pumbling away for until they fled for only a moments of rest, spiking back at random when they felt their opponent was ususpecting. But never did either fully surrender their alertness, for both were determined to win the war.

But both the storm and the arena knew that only one would win. And after many, many years and many hundreds of generations, one did become the victum.

The house was loosing quickly, for the wind was easily stronger. But as the wind fled to recharge, the home armed itself heavily. It built more houses - hundreds more to stand by its side until it had built an entire army taht the wind stuttered and failed at the mere sight of. And for a short moment, the house believed it had won.

But the wind had not yet given up the fight, for years upon decades upon centuries of the ruling house, the wind came back with a following of the trees, and the grass, and the ocean and the sun. And in a matter of moments the house and its army was no more, for the power that was the following the wind crushed every remaindor of the mass of houses there could have been.

The storm had now finally fizzled away with a tiring sigh of relief to have no more work to be done.

And as the wind had first predicted, there he walked in his glory, the followers and himself able to live as they should from only a mere second of destruction of their lives intrudors.





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