Brightness splashes through my blinds. My heart jumps. Again, a flash makes it seem like day time in my bedroom. I close my eyes. Light streaks across my closed lids. Then, then thunder. The thunder is the worst. I can never decide which is scarier— low, long rumbles or abrupt cracks. I throw my solitary blanket to the floor and pull myself out of bed to flick on the light. I can’t sleep, so I pull on some jeans and a blouse and yank my hair into an untidy ponytail. The thunder rattles the floor beneath me, sending a shiver up my spine, raising each hair along the way.


I begin to feel anxious. I perch myself on the bed carefully, as if I’d have to get up at any given moment. I breathe deeply and tell myself, over and over again, that this happens all the time. Why, so suddenly, have I become terrified of thunderstorms? Even as I reassure myself, my leg shakes uncontrollably. I reach to my desk for a pack of gum to calm my nerves. I press PLAY on my I-Home and set it to my classical playlist. I pick up my old, tattered notebook and start to write.


I write about everything that has just happened. It’s not a poem, nor a short story, nor the makings of a best-selling novel. It starts as a relaxation technique and ends. With what, I’m not sure. But I do know that the thunder and lightning have passed, my playlist is nearing its end, and this scented marker smells like blueberries.