Storm

The boy relaxed against the gentle slope of the hill, looking out at the afternoon sky.  Deep hues of red and purple outlines the sun, splashing out in a spectrum of colored light.  He never got the appeal for this kind of thing.  It was pretty, sure, but it was supposed to be pretty.  The boy always thought beauty was most present where it was least expected.

The sun was halfway under the horizon, just as eager to leave its responsibilities as the boy was.  It was nice to be out of the lab, but he’d just replaced procedural testing with planned chores.  No matter where he went or who took him, there was always too much order; the experiments at Base Horizon, the scheduled chores on his Uncle’s farm; and even nature itself.  The lights seemed to radiate in perfect concentric circles around the sun,  which was kept on a schedule of its own.  Rise and set, never deviate, never change; nobody wanted it to change because everyone wants their days to stay the same.  They fear changing the pattern of something so powerful because of how dire the consequences would be.  The boy realized they were afraid of changing him for the same reason.

The boy heard approaching sirens, but kept looking at the sky.  It had shifted slightly, but he colors remained the same.  He heard unfamiliar voices speaking with his Uncle, but his attention was elsewhere.  A cloud had crept into the sky, and was slowly blowing across the sun.  There it was.  Imperfection.  Disorder.  A change.

There was a hand on his shoulder.  The boy didn’t need to look to know it was someone from Base Horizon.  More clouds began to pour over the sky, blotting out its orderly performance.  The boy didn’t want to go back.  The wind picked up, whipping the boy’s hair off his face.  His Uncle spoke, but his voice was lost in the wind.  His Uncle was trying to tell him something, maybe to run or hide.  But the boy didn’t want to stay here.

He hadn’t noticed it was raining until he’d decided to stand.  The winds seemed to curl around him ,and he surrendered himself, allowing them to lift him.  His Uncle’s house was wavering under the heavy duress, and the boy’s younger cousin came running out, scared and confused, calling for his father.  Just then, the house’s adjoining shed gave out, ripping apart in the fierce malestrom.  One of the walls ripped apart, flipping wildly in the air before striking the boy’s cousin in the back of the head.  His body was carried away, bent and broken, until is was just another piece of debris in the tornado.  The boy wasn’t sad.  His cousin was an unlucky victim of chaos.  In a system of order, his death would have been calculated, down to the final day of his life.  The boy looked down, and found that he could no longer see the ground.  When he looked up, he smiled in delight at the sky’s absence.  It had been completely covered in churning clouds, spewing rain and lightning wherever they pleased.  Everything he once knew was lost in the storm, shunned by its chaos.

Clouds began to circle around the boy, creating a darkened halo of storm clouds.  It was then the boy realized he’d forgotten his name.  All around him, the storm raged, but the halo remained.  It was from chaos that his new identity was chosen.

“Nimbus,” he said aloud, his voice lost in the winds.  Almost immediately, the nimbus faded, torn apart just as his old life had been.