storms - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The storm came as the opera of the skies, the instruments determined to sing out, the trees and grasses as their percussion. Even the rain came in orchestrated rhythm, appearing the as the master of the scene yet arriving on unheard cue. From within our home it gave a surging rise to our hearts, calling out that childish sense of adventurous joy.
Lightning lit the skies in brilliant streaks. Fog embraced every tree, every square centimetre of of ground. Thunder declared itself as some rock star upon the stage. Sheets of rain revived the grass, resounding and rippling without frontier.
Above, the houses on the hill survive in valley-echoed hail.
Emerald eruptions of green envelop countryside in a carpet of living nature. Towers and trees - once boundless and bare - now flourish with vines, victorious as they claim their valley.
Streams once sucked of their nourishing liquids are now bustle with aquatic activity. Ripples run freely, harbingers of joy. The river, slowly but surely, creates a new liberty, surging over the banks to create a space, carving and forming the new paradise.
There, among the regenerating giant, a boy sat gazing out as nature unfolds its hidden secret.
The lightning and the sun upon the cloud tops was the only brightness that day. The wind ran as if it has been restrained for time out of mind and it was determined to outrun any chaser. The sound of it was a strange song, as if howling yearned for a melody, and we watched the trees join in the unfolding scene, as if the change, though abrupt and startling, was as welcome as a surprise knock on the door.
Carnage ensued, trees writhing and flailing, their groans of pain carried away by the wind. It screamed like a banshee, uprooting weeds and shrubs in a fit of ever-consuming rage. Rain hammered the ground, an impenetrable salvo of bullets. Livid black clouds reared up like a cobra readying itself for attack. They spat lightning mercilessly onto the pitiful scene below, which cut through the sky not unlike burning venom.
Torrential rain attacked Los Angeles in sheets, an impenetrable gunfire. Dammit, thought Rebecca bitterly. She drew her parka tightly around herself and shivered. Neon signs flashed and flickered despite the weather, leaving imprints on the back of her eyelids. The churlish, caterwauling wind scattered the miasma of fog around the city. It whipped up into a frenzy, passers-by making futile efforts to resist. Cheeks pink with cold, she turned into an alleyway and ducked into an ajar door, and her eyes fluttered shut as waves of warmth crashed over her.
Storms brewed on the cold horizon promising nothing but winds to level even the mightiest of trees to the soil. The noon darkness and damp-smelling air threatened to render them helpless beneath whatever pitiful shelter they sought. David cast his eyes to the charcoal sky, his attention held by a golden streak, a crack in the cloud layer where the sun streamed through as fast as water through a cracked dam. The rain was promised, the wind already unleashed, but there would be sunshine and warmth by morning, time to rebuild and repair.
I felt myself sink into a state of ease, for I knew what was coming next. The impending was inevitable and I could sense it nearing. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a bolt of lightning cracked the midnight blue sky into two. Jagged flashes of pure light cast a glow against the monochromatic background. For the past week, I lay in bed fervently hoping I'd wake up to the gentle patter of rain on my windowpane, an escape from the scorching heat; and now, here it was, cascading in diagonal sheets in its full glory. There was a certain rhythm to the downpour that I caught amidst the wind unleashing a torrent of its own. The rain exhibited no sign to cease, the inception of the storm had only just arrived.
Be still. The wind screams more than howls. Rain falls as stones. The trees they bend and moan in wrath enough to scare the Gods, branches torn like paper limbs. This storm, more wicked than any in living memory, is watched through debris that tumbles in the vortices, heavy like bullets, destroying anything and everything, avenging the forgotten.
It must have been a storm that Abaddon had created himself. Waves as high as 100 feet thrashed the hull, and rocked the deck. Torrential rain poured down in icy sheets like needles upon one’s face. Claps of thunder sounded that pierced through the eardrums and lightening like Poseidon’s sword forked through the clouds and the sea itself burned in it.
This storm was different. He had never experienced such wrath of waves in his twenty seven years as a sailor. He was filled with an ill sense of foreboding, which he didn’t want to accept consciously. It was as if the black gates of Hell had been opened, which engulfed everything and everybody into their limitless darkness. His crew members ran helter-skelter trying to keep up with his commands. But it seemed they too knew their fate and had surrendered their measly souls to the Lords already. Terror dripped like the rain itself from their faces. It was as if the frigid rain had frosted their brains. They were tired. It had been hours that they had hit the storm. Some had brought out their rosaries and were praying for its abatement.
What began as some high winds and a smattering of rain has built into the worst storm in a generation. The wind doesn't howl, it screams. The rain doesn't fall it is driven, hard, merciless, torrential. The trees do not sway, they creak, bend and moan as their fine limbs are ripped away and their autumnal leaves become not confetti, but ammunition in the gale. We hunker in homes that are not cozy places of shelter as they would ordinarily be in adverse weather, but are vulnerable agglomerations of wood, metal and stone. There is nothing we can do as the violence around us tears apart what has taken decades to build. The old barn is already splinters across the orchard and our fine crop of apples is not only lost, but their bearers are uprooted, leaning, battered beyond their ability to recover. We huddle and pray for a cessation of the brutality. We know better than to challenge God's wisdom but we ask for mercy and the strength to rebuild.
The clouds above her oozed and billowed across the awakening sun, casting the meadow into a shadowy darkness. A jagged bolt of lightning ripped the sky in half and she began to run, wincing as each icy raindrop pierced her skin. The violent wind whipped the blonde hair around her face and tears mixed with rain as a numbing coldness gripped her heart. Thunder rolled across the sky, seeming to crack the world in half and reveal the fury of the gods. It reverberated around the green landscape, eerily echoing as the girl desperately searched for shelter.
She found none.
The only sure way to escape was to go in a storm. When the rain began to howl and the rain lash the concrete breeze blocks that made our shelters, we prayed for sound of creaking wood that would tell us the boughs of the mighty oaks and beech trees were being ripped away. Then we would know that the air was a wicked vortex of debris and the Overseer would be too scared to come after us. He would not risk his neck or his top-of-the-line hovercraft for us. Trixie had made an override for the security system on the door, after checking for the beams with dust we had scrapped from the walls there was no turning back. By now the main house would be ringing with alarms. With our arms linked around the waist of the person in front, and Trixie in the middle to stop her from being blown away, we bent our heads into the gale and forced out legs to move much like a centipede in molasses. Our limbs were feeble from too much time hooked up the machines, but at least the storm cloud blocked the sun.
Outside rages a blizzard. The ice-rescue squad are out there somewhere. The distress call came in at 03:00hrs and of course they went without seeking permission from control. Jerry replays the request, there's something odd about it but we can't figure out what. It's minus 27 Celsius with wind chill subtracting at least another twenty, no-one wants to speak. All we can hear is the raw power of the wind that rages around. Looking out of the periscope brings only an accelerated heart rate, visibility is zero. Agnes has a young son back home, Lionel has a new bride and Sarah a wife. We stand each with folded arms picking a different spot of the wall to look at. Our frantic calls on the radio have stopped, no-one can stand the dead static that is the only response. Then Micky starts to suit up and the rest of us become as frozen as the snow outside, he picks up a tracker that will detect the beacons in their suits. As one we move to block the only exit.
The more brutal the storm the calmer my heart. We prayed for so long for God to send winds enough to cover our tracks with the debris of a storm, to wash away any trace of our path, to remove our scents from the bracken. If the gale were any less we would have been picked off already by the auto-flyers with their infra-red sensors, but they cannot navigate in the unforgiving eddies of violent air. Bitter gusts rip at our flimsy clothing designed for nothing more than our purpose as code slaves. It bites at our faces and stings our eyes, narrowed to keep out the relentless curtain of rain. We refuse be reduced by this storm, we embrace is as our brother in arms, a benevolent gift from the divine creator. For only such violence can deliver us. We fear not what is ahead, only what is behind. When we have reached the northern boundary we will dig out our trackers with a shard of plastic and head west to the city. Only in the throngs of the unwashed and faceless can we have any protection.
Our guide is nervous. He points to the unbroken dense cloud above that has darkened to gun metal grey. The air is thick with moisture. No longer are the trees static, they bend like ocean kelp, twisting in the unseen currents. His cheerful teenage demeanour has evaporated, he is as gaunt as a soldier caught unexpectedly behind enemy lines. Our banter is replaced with nervous speculation, but we have no time to dwell, he breaks into a steady jog and all we can do is follow. There is no chance he'll slow for stragglers, our currency is not worth being caught out in what the skies promise to bestow. Then the rain sets in, not with a slow build up but all at once, a wall of water. The ground that was dry moments ago is awash, the wind steals into us as if we were naked. Before five minutes have passed nobody can see anyone else We should stop moving, regroup, but we have no means to communicate. We scatter like the leaves in their chaotic flight with nothing but our prayers for protection.
It began with a slow pitter-pattering of rain, bouncing off the roof and forming puddles. We thought nothing of it and continued our game of cards, laughing and talking. It steadily built up to a thunderous deluge, so loud that we had to look up and peer out the window. The winds were driving the rain faster, harder, stronger than it had ever before. It died down a little, and I turned back to the game of cards. But before I could play, lightning struck. It had hit an oak tree, legendary for surviving lightning strikes. I sighed a quick sigh of relief, but all of a sudden a loud cracking sound was heard, and with a mighty groan the king of the trees split in half, charred and alight with fire. It was only then that I began to fear the storm.
...the storm broke. The rain fell like an ocean thrown from the sky. It crashed into the town, splattered off the sidewalks, and formed instant rivers that raced along the gutters and overwhelmed the drains. There was no thunder. Just this avalanche of water that threatened to drown the world.
Found in Alex Rider, Eagle Strike, authored by .
The river beneath me began to swell, water cascading over the rocks. Clouds began to rumble and darken. Steadily building into a thunderous deluge, icy sheets of rain began to pour mercilessly from the ever darkening sky , making the unpaved bridge awash with mud and obscuring my vision.
Suddenly, a fork of lightning, brilliant and buzzing with a magnificent electricity, flashed majestically through the groaning mountain of clouds. Whistling and shrieking, the wind raged through the night, like an angered bear.
Thunder rippled; the noise enveloped the river and its surroundings and the trees nearby were sleek with torrents of rain cold rainwater.
The wind demanded to be heard.
The lightning fought to be seen.
The rain lived to soak my clothes.
The storm had broken...
Crash of lightening, startled air, booming thunder rolls through sleepy hills, sheets of rain, forked lightening striking the church weather vane, blanket lightening brilliant like a camera flash, counting between the flash and the roar, storm approaching, rain pelting against window panes, wind whistling down the chimney top, fences creaking, tree tops bent, pitted against the unrelenting gale, streams full to bursting, ground mushy, squelchy, boggy, water lies in rain pelted puddles, roads become rivers.
Heavy rain, sheets of water falling from dark skies, flooded streets, clothes soaked, unnatural darkness of the afternoon, rain beating down flamboyant trees, sky hot silver, lightening and thunder, storm overhead, storm far off over the forest, glorious clouded sunset, unpaved paths awash with mud, sinking sun shot through layers of grey cloud, streams and rivers swollen, innumerable little cascades over rocks.
It had been the fiercest storm that had ever hit the land. She could still remember seeing it from the windows of her room, seeing the wind ripping through the air and hearing its high-pitched screams. She could hear thunder roaring violently and lightning tearing the sky apart, could see the ocean stirring violently, black waves like enormous claws ready to swallow everything in their way. The ocean that had once been a kind and gentle mother to them had become nothing but a savage consumed by wrath that night.
The sea of Galilee has unstable emotions. In the morning, the fishing boat casts out to smooth waters and the sun shines brightly, but it is all a farce, a trap that the sea sets for those who make their living by catching and selling fish. Why? Because, in one moment's time, the glassy smooth surface can stir, move, and churn. Dark, ominous clouds can appear from nowhere. Rain starts in droplets, and then develops quickly into stinging pellets. If the sails are unfolded, they must be struck in panic quickness. If the sails are not down with dispatch, the vessel will be pushed up a mountain wave and down into a valley of white water. The wooden mass can snap, and send the heavy beam crashing onto the deck. So, the entire crew is not fooled by the calm sea. We are always ready to move to strike those sails at the first droplets of rain, and/or at the sign of increased wind. The danger is a given for all of us, but today, today, the fish are filling the nets.
The wind is howling like some horror movie opener and the room is dark as night. When I manage to focus on my clock it's almost noon. My Ziplocone hangover recedes almost instantly with eyes wired open and my heart beating faster than a heavy metal drummer. Still dressed in scrubs and sporting my new shiner I'm out in the street in just seconds. My hair whips so violently about my face I can barely see at all. There are no cars and no people. Newspapers tumble around the asphalt, caught in vortexes I can only feel. The trees creak, screaming as their limbs strain agains the onslaught. I take a few involuntary steps backwards and scramble for my front door as it bangs against the wall in chaotic booms. Then the rain starts, not slowly, but so thick I can't see a yard. It pummels my skin raw in the seconds it takes me to get inside. The house is now creaking like the trees and suddenly I glance up a the roof and pray it stays.
Forked lightning, brilliant and white-hot, flashed through the blackening sky. Crackling thunder rippled; the deafening noise engulfed marble buildings, erect and sleek with water. Rain fell in thick sheets of droplets. Little streams raced through the empty streets into the gutter. Her chocolate-brown hair whipped about in the mighty wind and rain pelted her simple tunic. She protectively held a hand up to her amber eyes. Esther spotted a small alley and made a dash for it. The dim alley shielded her from most of the rain.
The ocean that had provided for us all of our lives became savage that night. Its customary genial waves that bob the fishing fleet were magnified beyond anything in living memory, even for the old "sea dogs." They rose not six feet or twelve, but twenty five and came crashing into our brightly painted wooden sea-front buildings like they were dolls-houses. From the hillside we watched, as ashen as the fish we haul daily. There was no blue water at all, only white and the wind drove it over the sea defences as easily as a child spilling milk. The waves were loud under the howl of the wind; the salty air we usually relish burned at our lungs and watered our eyes. Through thick tears our minds rejected what we could plainly see before us. Everything was splintered, there wasn't a single boat or dwelling that was reparable. We were orphans of the storm, refugees in our own town. Without any homes to go to we were one big family with all the benefits and problems that brings...
The radio had been announcing the rainstorm of the decade all day, but Emily had been under the bridge since breakfast, hugging her knees. It was boring but infinitely preferable to high school. After a time she startled out of her daydream, it was too dark. If she was late her mother would start asking questions. Aching with cold she rose to standing, hunched like an old woman. With one glance she breathed a sigh of relief, it wasn't late; black cloud rolled like a midnight ocean every direction. The air was so humid she could taste it and already the cars had their headlamps on. Emily dusted off her jeans and hitched her backpack higher. This couldn't be a long term plan, she knew that, but every which way was fear: fear of angry-faced teachers, kids who bullied and parents who demanded nothing less than perfection. When the heavens broke she stopped her walking, standing statue-like in the rain. Her long black hair stuck to her face and back, her clothes wet through in seconds.
The sunshine had gone, and the storm Sacha had prophesied the night before was creeping like a black beast across the horizon.
The pattering of the rain, a soothing sound, suddenly turns into drumbeats on the roof top. The sky turns dark and life comes to a stop. I cannot see the road outside as raindrops cover the windows. Lightening strikes the trees, tearing them apart. I can hear my heart pound against my chest and suddenly the electricity goes. The house is cold as ice and everything outside is drowning.
Nature’s suppressed anger was realized that day. The sun had beat down on the massive city. London had got off to a lazy start on that summer’s morning. There was little traffic and almost all shops were closed. The news of freak showers in the Sahara desert and also heat waves on North Canada. The sky was clear except for one wispy cloud. Over the hour people noticed that the cloud was getting bigger and darker. Later on the met office released a heavy thunderstorm warning. They said the whole cloud was the eye of a storm. They predicted that this would evolve into the storm of the century. Even though the people were warned they still went outside. The cloud got bigger and darker until the whole of the city was under a black abyss of the cloud.
Soon, it began sprinkling. Little droplets of water drenched her hair, skin, and dress. The water droplets began growing larger and falling frequently. The light ‘pitter patter’ of rain turned into wet thuds as the icy water raced to meet the ground. The sprinkling turned into a torrential downpour. The coldness seeped through her gauzy gown and chilled her skin. Truffle’s hooves were sloshing through the thick, slushy mud. The clouds grew darker and darker. A flash of lightning spooked the horse. Sapphira held Truffle’s neck firmly and whispered words of comfort. The bone-chilling cold seemed unbearable in the howling wind and icy rain. The sound of thunder rolled through the area as another lightning bolt split the sky.
The storm clouds formed, as big as a mountain. Hidden within their depths lurked power like a snake ready to pounce. White lightning struck like the Gods wrath tearing through the air like a hot knife through butter leaving the ground reverberating with unchecked power. Thunder lightened the bronzy colour sky. The clouds watched down with omniscient eyes feeling no emotion. White water pierced the air sending droplets to crash upon the ground like meteorites causing havoc.
Asher ran covered in mud from head to toe his feet ached and pleaded for rest with hands: the storm wouldn’t wait. The storm surrounded him; he was well and truly trapped. He could taste the air almost cloying and salty from the sea. It choked him like the smoke of fire never could.
Onyx clouds on the dark horizon
Lightning flexed in the distance
War cry of the mountains
Rain fell lazily from charcoal-coloured clouds as Catherine Hunter sprinted through the darkening streets, her long hair tied in a tight braid and tucked beneath a black knitted cap.
Thundery day all along Greenback. All the willows standing still with their leaves pricked. Dusty green. Pale lilac shadows. Tarred road reflecting the sky. Blue to make you jump. A great cloud over on the Surrey shore. Yellow as soap and solid as a cushion. Shaped like a tower about a mile high and half a mile thick, with a little Scotch pepper pot in front. Dresden blue behind full of sunlight floating like gold dust. River roughed up with little waves like the flat side of a cheese grater. Dark copper under the cloud, dark lead under the blue.
Dark clouds boiled around them, a night of creaking branches, howling wind and sleeping in fitful naps, soaking rain thunders against a single paned caravan window.
In less than five minutes, I was outside in the humid and dark weather. The sky was filled with gray clouds. It was suffocating, with the dark clouds pressing in as if to crush you, and then pressing the point with a sudden flash of lightning, thunder rumbling like a hungry monster a split second later. It is a dead thing, the sky, it settles sprawls, dark and heady, overwhelming, dreary and dreadful like a cemetery stone. Even though, the sky seems threatening and terrifying, I see a gigantic doorway to adventures and dreams. The sky I believe is a large magical surrounding full of light and dark, life and art. Thinking about all of this reminds me of something Eric told me. It was a stormy day, just like this one, and I was scared of the sky. I didn’t think something so beautiful and mesmerizing could be something so mysterious and so terrifying.
Eric had said, “A ascending abyss, is what the sky is, Alice. The sky reflects our very being and serves as a lens for the yin and yang in all of us. The sky is a gateway to infinity, which we instinctively perceive when looking into it, and feeling amazed. The sky is mysterious, unknown, and beautiful. The sky is as beautiful as it is deadly, Alice. It can be as bright as your wildest dreams but dark as a nightmare. It can set you free, or trap you in invisible barriers that confine and leave you heavy with desperation.” Back then; I was just a child, so immature and insecure. I had no idea what he was talking about. But now that I think of it, I wonder what he meant by ‘the yin and yang in all of us.’ Even now, it doesn’t make sense.
The blizzard removes the illusion of my eyes. With sight I am not alone, I am one of many in the world and the world is full of interesting things to see, to touch to feel, to keep my mind anchored in time and space. But as the white flakes whirl around me in an angry vortex I am as alone as I would be in the bleakness of space and cold, so cold. I reach out with gloved hand to guide my way but it is swallowed before it has gone even a few inches. To save my eyes from the blinding white I must narrow them until they are almost shut, and all the while the wind rages without end, only reducing its ferocity long enough to gather the strength for another attack. All my heart can do is beat warm blood around my veins in a hope that the storm will end, all my mind can do is plan the most logical path to warmth, safety and to something more tangible than light and snow.
snow harsh and biting, driven into faces, blinded by the frantic flurry of swirling white, brutal unforgiving wind cutting right through gloves and pants, frigid beauty, tempestuous onslaught, might of nature, wild, untamed.
While I hunkered down in my home the storm did not go gently. It was quite an experience when I unbolted my door. The newly-coated asphalt that engrossed the strip of road was wallowing under the muddy water. Against the night, trees were the only visible silhouette, grazing the cold wind in an arranged manner. Leaves cascaded on the green pasture, that was leading to the small hill in the distance. The sky was clear birthing immense water droplets, drenching the land profusely.
Suddenly lightning shreds though the sky like a spear thrown by a furious deity, piercing the sludge and shattering the earth underneath, propelling mud like shrapnel, obliterating anything in its path. Bang! Again and again the lightning struck, shredding through trees like paper, tearing apart the landscape as if in a crazed, blind irrational rage. Ruthlessly rain starts to relentlessly plummet from the heavens like kamikaze bombers splattering against the world, soaking the soil, forging streams and rivers through the sludge like a tear stained face. Horrific howling gales ran rampant across the forest. Like spirits they possessed the trees making them wave and dance, occasionally ripping them out of the ground they had called home for so many years and tossed them to the ground to be flooded by the ever rising rain.
To watch a storm slowly flow over an hidden landscape can be likened to a wild dance, the flickering of bright lightening as it speeds through darkening clouds towards the ground, the rain, pouring itself openly from the unseen heavens, pounding and arcing harder and heavier as the hours drag on. The clouds themselves going from a soft white into indescribable patterns of greys and blacks.