When the Thunder Returned
A short story about being alive
Author’s note:
I wrote this during this morning’s workshop at the writing retreat I’m part of. It reminded me why I fell in love with creativity in the first place. There are no real limits to it, only doors you haven’t opened yet. You can enter the world through anything and still find something human waiting for you there.
It took two decades for this metal chair, covered in white paint, to find its home. Until it was placed on the terrace of the Arvon Foundation Writing House, where it was blessed with birdsong every day, it sailed through the Pacific Ocean, battling desperately to preserve its paint. There were days when waves rocked the ship from side to side, sometimes gentle, sometimes rough. Unlike the other chairs that were stored there, the Picket, it called itself that, enjoyed the storms where thunder struck the heart of the sea, because that was the only thing that reminded it of life.
Ten months later, it arrived at a port in Wales. It was used by strangers who shoved their asses onto its face while always hearing the same words:
“This chair is good quality.”
It didn’t know what it meant. It only knew how repulsive the touch and the smell felt when it was sat on. The same touch felt different when it was carried to the town’s Sunday market, and a gentleman saved it from being victimised by the smell of urine that surrounded the streets.
That was the very same day it arrived at the Arvon mansion and finally exhaled the breath it wasn’t aware it was blessed with.
Since then, it has been observing silently, without anyone realising it carried life within.
Days went by like leaves falling down a stream. It all felt indifferent, like the thunder-free days on that ship.
Then one day, the door of the terrace opened, and a woman stepped in.
Her cheeks reminded Picket of the pink roses that stood next to the red ones. Her hair resembled the colour of the hay that Picket occasionally saw butlers carrying to the stables. Everything about her reminded Picket of something in that mansion, but her eyes were different.
They carried the same spark as those thunders, reminding Picket of what it meant to be alive.
“How beautiful,” the woman said, closing her eyes briefly as a thin ribbon of sunshine brushed her hair.
Picket realised it was unfair to compare her shades to hay.
She reached for her bag and pulled out something with sharp edges.
Bip-bap-bop-bip-bip.
“Hey, Mom!”
Picket was stunned when it heard a voice that did not belong to a presence on that terrace.
“Hi, Imi. Have you arrived?” the girl’s mother said loudly.
“Mom, lower your voice. You’re on speaker,” Imi said in one breath.
“I’m taking that as a yes,” her mother said.
“It is lovely out here, Mother. I will call you later. Now, I just want to take it all in,” said Imi as she hung up her phone and threw herself on the grass.
Five minutes later, she was swimming at the pond wearing her clothes.
That’s it, Picket thought to itself. For the first time since its creation, Picket wanted someone to sit on it.
I was able to come to this retreat through the support I received from paid subscriptions, and that meant more to me than I can put into words. If something in my writing stays with you, consider upgrading to paid. Your support allows me to keep investing in this work and showing up here in the way I believe in.
What a beautiful way to show how journeys both ours and even a simple chair’s are full of storms, persistence, and moments of grace. It’s inspiring to see your dedication to creating a space for reflection and writing, and the way your supporters make that possible speaks to the real human connections behind art.
Lovely