1. 1
Raining Thunder
As the flicker of blinding lights capture the silhouette of the building, I begin to see the
reasons I didn’t want to come here. Nothing could replace my quiet little home, where all of
life’s necessities are at my finger tips. All of my life, these annoying fireflies keep flickering in my
face as if to keep me awake. How could I sleep, when these annoying fools keep following me
around? Privacy is all I need.
When I cross the unnaturally long mat, it may be possible to find peace; but not likely.
Inside the dome of wastefully spent money, I will find several other prisoners, who may venture
to inform me of their worldly conquests. Nothing could be more boring than listening to those
pigs talk with the tongue of a canary. Could eight hours of this be any longer? I wish this trivial
event could just end.
As I think this, an overexcited lunatic comes to shake my hand. My hand! It mystifies me
why everyone thinks they have a right to touch my precious appendages. Stepping one foot in
front of the other, I begin my flight across the swarming bees gathered around the fancy laced
ribbon. My heart begins to pound, but they can’t see the fear in my eyes thanks to my shaded
sunglasses. Walking to keep myself composed, I finally cross the carpet of blood to enter my
prison of synthetic sanctuary. The red tapestry, seats, and carpet seem too perfect. With great
prestige the thunder of claps die down along with the annoying flashes of lightning. Thus begins
my venture into my yearly torture.
The escapade of conjuring out of the sea of faces into another multitude of stiff necked
monkeys has taken its toll on my peace of mind. Another venture into the never ending chasm

2. of doom could leave me breathless and on the floor. Screaming, shouting and stretching for my
clothes, the people reach for me like I am a god, leaving me feeling weak. With every slow
momentum pushed forward through the scarlet red velvet road, my back aches and my head
pounds from the effort to stay in control among the yapping hyenas. As the tune to my
execution begins, I step forth with a brave and honorable composure that would have Ryan
Gosling jealous for more attention.
The many faces that laugh, smile, and cry in front of a screen are as expressionless as
can be. The first indication of such dry hypocrisy comes when a fellow inmate tries to smile, but
only I can tell the deep pain in his eyes and evident repulsion. The gray hairs on his head try to
hide the obvious lack thereof. Additionally, his beard looks extremely well brushed in a manner
that is unlike him. With his perfectly fit suit, Steven could be mistaken for a completely
delighted guest except for one fact that only I know. The very white sleeves contrasted by the
overlaid black resemble our uniform of captivity. However, my deductions in the dressing of my
friend reveal the very essence of the situation. Consequently, someone else was behind the
very handling of my friend's own attire. The possibility of him being capable of producing
something so perfect is out of the question. Out of the deep simplicity of the black and white
containment, I notice the one thing my friend kept alive in his character. The button in his right
collar suffixes at an angle unnatural and deemed out of place. Therefore it would be easy to
assume he tried to adjust the enclosure around his neck to keep from suffering a blackout
during the duration of the announcement of my probable execution. I slowly lift up my hand
smiling with a beam of over-excitement and button the collar of his prison outfit with the crowd
watching me. He smiles back at me, with a buried hatred for me tightening the noose to his

3. 3
funeral. However, he waves to those anticipating our reunited meeting and shakes my hand
firmly.
Out of the commotion rises a woman of immense beauty. I am immediately captivated.
Seeing her face among the crowd is like finding a diamond among soot. The beauty in red
stands out despite the splotches of color in the crowd of black and white. With her back
revealing the cream white skin, the bright dress doesn’t detract from her natural allure. As I
observe her astute posture, I catch a glimpse of her russet eyes. Her brunette hair is tied neatly
in a bun done with such perfection I know only she could have straightened it. She glances my
way. Heart beating, I pretend, my specialty, that I have not noticed her. Looking back at my
friend Steven, I catch him beaming so big it would make a man break a cheek bone. Suddenly, I
remember I don’t want to be here. How could I be so distracted? I knew she would be here. I
can always run out an exit, but I would be trapped by the swarming bees outside. I have to
come up with a plan. She comes my way. Now I will have to face the sentence with her in the
audience. Hopefully, my name will not be drawn.
Her elegance is genuine. Venturing through the bodies, she steps toward me with her
heels clicking the marble floor. As the prisoners notice her, they part to the side like servants
before a queen. Everyone knows the Miss has the world at her fingertips. However, she is too
polite to even consider taking advantage of others. Her movement stops with grandeur. The
exquisite perfection of her dress, hair, and skin cannot compare with her deep gentle eyes set
on yours truly. If I had but the courage of the lion at Dorothy’s side, I would kiss her in the midst
of this crowd of people. Instead, a crease develops across my face in the most natural manner I

4. can conjure. She replies with a smile much more breathtaking. With every moment, I wish she
could understand my deep feelings for her. I will stay because of her, even if it means facing my
worst nightmare. Then I am brought back to reality when a careless commoner trips with his
glass of wine ruining my nice white shirt. Now my only hope for looking less like a fool is gone.
Now the idiots have every right to laugh at me.
The young man looks up with a face of complete dismay and horror. He deserves every
bit of heartache and trauma after such a grotesque gesture. My glare of absolute distaste does
not help ease his mind. The more he observes my shirt the more the debacle escalates. Quickly,
I place one hand firmly on his shoulder, only to smile wickedly at him with the whites of my
teeth showing. Right at this moment, a high pitched laughter echoes in my ear. Turning around
I notice the very girl I had gaped at. Her eyes water and beam with joy, yet her mockery and
enjoyment at my expense offends me. Letting go of my grip on the man’s arm I playfully smile
back at her. With every passing moment I know this is what will keep me here in this place. Just
staring into her eyes makes me go into a trance. She opens her lips to say something when a
shot rings out. The assassins have come.
Thankfully, I lift my hands in the air and dodge a bullet. The bright flash from the shot
blinds my eyes. With his hand on the trigger, the initiator looks up smiling and laughing as his
eyes beam from the snaps of light. More are coming. Instinctively, like a character inside me
trying to jump out, I move to protect my damsel in distress. Her whimsical laugh seems odd to
me for the occasion. Moving my hand in the air to shield her eyes from the horror, I maneuver
my body in front of hers to protect her from any harm that may come her way. Immediately, a

5. 5
series of snaps, cracks, and flashes reflect off of our silhouettes. As I look into the darling’s eyes,
a shock of confusion envelopes in her expression. Nonetheless, she must know I am doing this
for her own safety. Grabbing one of the wine glasses nearby, I turn around and face the
reporters. With one swoop of my arm, I strategically fling the red staining liquid at all the heads
of the photographers. Several shrieks burst out. Someone falls down. I applaud.
My battle with the ravens has left them stained in the very blood they tried to capture.
They cannot conquer a great and mighty lion like me. Amusing me with their helpless
squelching, they observe with horror their stained coats. Immediately, they begin preening
their feathers by dabbing them with any cloth within reach. When they begin to realize what
just happened, they begin a formation of attack. However, I give them a glare that would make
Clint Eastwood turn away. They suddenly remember who is king of the mountain. I revert my
gaze to my lady, who is in deep shock after such a reprisal.
Her look of horror does not equate, since I have just saved her from the scavengers
feasting off our every mistake. She should be on her hands and knees thanking me for what I
have done. After all, they deserved every bit of red stain on their morbid black conscious. They
need to mind their own business.
The state in which I left her is still intact. Her bright red dress still sparkles untouched by
the blood spilt by my masterful toss. Although her lipstick contorts into a frown of disapproval,
her face is just as beautiful as ever. With blushed cheeks, she looks more like a dazzling heroine.
Opening her mouth, she shouts a few words that I take as a compliment. Her dose of insanity is

6. understandable under the circumstances. It’s not every day she sees someone douse people in
wine.
Looking down pretending to be ashamed, I notice the cause of the war. My battle
wound still seeps deep into the Italian wool. My one love is ruined. Knowing that I was able to
retaliate against those I disliked, I feel somewhat better. With eyes like a puppy, I look at the
woman I have grown so fondly of. She sighs and then pulls out a handkerchief from one of the
bystanders pockets and begins wiping the stain like a trained nurse. Although I have always
thought of her as a kind woman, I have never expected such a respectful gesture. Precise and
careful, she dabs the stains with a force that recedes the obviously hopeless stain into the cloth.
With one graceful sweep, she folds the hankie into a perfect triangle. Placing it back in the
man’s pocket, she smiles gratefully at the bystander for inadvertently letting her have the cloth.
My stain is still apparent, but at least I can still cover it up. I will still look like an idiot before the
slaughter.
Observing the guests, I notice that all the bystanders are still there looking at us. I’m
quite annoyed that I am always watched. On top of having an audience, cameras are still
pointed at us as if to catch the most exciting people of the party. I consider throwing audacious
insults at them, but realize that the occasion does not merit it.
After all this, the same boy who started this mess hastens to me and whispers in my ear.
Before I leave, I look back. She is gone. Following the mischief maker, I am lead to a seat where
I will await my pending doom. I place my hand on the red stained tragedy. As my self-conscious
comes alive, I button up my jacket to keep up my confidence. My friend, the old man, sits next

7. 7
to me talking to his wife. Lights illuminate the tall skyscraping ceiling. With drapes of red velvet
covering the balconies, the high seats look down with gleeful mockery. My very existence
seems altogether too noticeable but misunderstood.
The palms of my hand sweat with perspiration. In anticipation, my heart speeds up by
half a step to the beat of the music. The background melody sways smoothly into the very flow
of my being. As my bones begin to ease their tension, I close my eyes. Elegantly, the strings
move across the vibrato, the bass layers underneath the pallet, and the keys bounce through
the chorus.
In the midst of my relaxation, the music fades out. Footsteps clank on the stage. The
smooth but sarcastic voice echoes through the room. The crowd laughs. Opening my eyes, I
observe the familiar figure. The short blond hair and stylish vest compliment yet display what
most people think is odd. I, however, feel that I can relate to such criticism as I myself am not
considered normal. The crowd chuckles, as she cracks another joke. Her humor lights up the
room periodically. Knowing so many are watching, my heart grows heavy with worry. What a
predicament I have gotten myself into.
I could always run out the back door if my name is called. Attempting to think of
excuses to exit, I realize how difficult this will be. Then I think of the damsels face and how an
embarrassment it will be to not at least face my mountain. After all, I could impress her. Several
gentlemen walk on stage. They have been chosen. However, I know this just means that I am
one step closer to encountering the same fate. When the screen flashes the tributes, I
remember the man to my right. Glancing in his direction, he gives me a worried smile. In

8. anticipation, he could be one of those on the screen in the near future. The crowd applauds.
Time is getting short. Now I understand what Hook felt when hearing the ticking of his clock in
the crocodile.
Finally, after a long awaited time my group is in the drawing. The chosen paper rests in
their hands crinkled with the ink of one of our names. I am among four others on the list for
torture worse than death itself. As they unfold the results, time begins to slow into a series of
photographs capturing every significant event leading up to this moment. My vision begins to
blur so I keep the shades on.
A melody familiar to me bounces off the rooms acoustics. Something inside me lifts my
legs up as I begin walking down the aisle. Somehow moving up the stairs, all feeling has left me.
Inside my stomach, demons and angels battle for control. They are too violent to be just
butterflies. The lady on stage smiles at me. My feet keep moving.
As I approach her she gives me a small figurine that looks as polished as my shoes.
Taking the gold statue, I look into the audience. She asks me a question. I don’t know what to
say. The people laugh. Holding back a blush, I look down at my hidden stain. Considerately, the
host turns the tide in a different direction. My heart pounds as she gives me the mic.
Staring into the faces of strangers, friends, enemies, and acquaintances, I begin the
ordeal. As I look around the room, I see the exit. Then, out of the corner of my eye I notice her.
She sits there with no distinguishable facial expression. Then I remember her smile when I got
the part. I almost turned it down. Then I look at my friend, with whom I have worked for many
years. Where would I be if I turned and ran away? My mouth is still moving and I know I am

9. 9
saying something, but what it is I don’t know. When I stop there is silence, then a raining
thunder.

10. 9
saying something, but what it is I don’t know. When I stop there is silence, then a raining
thunder.