Thing 17: A storm destroys your uncle's shed and kills his six-year-old son. Describe the colour of the sky right before the storm hit.

Originally posted to Facebook on June 13th, 2013, this is a heavy piece of writing. It took me awhile to collect my thoughts, as mentioned in the preamble, which for various reasons is longer than the piece itself.

Preamble:
"Holy crap. That's quite a heavy moment.

Now, one could approach this in a number of different ways. The first would be to assume that the storm and its effects have no bearing on the current scenario, which would have the sky described matter-of-factly. This passage would be free of emotional baggage.

The second could have the sky as yet another in a series of unfortunate events. The sky would then mirror the emotions of the characters within the story, and so the events of the storm are adequately prepared by the description itself as something to be expected.

The third is to use the storm's events as a moment of change; a shift in the paradigm, if you will. The description of the sky would, in this case, belie those events, yet serve as a subtle foreshadow of things to come. I personally like this idea the most, and so will attempt to write my passage with this strategy in mind. The best example I can remember of this narrative approach is in the movie a Bridge to Terabithia (I realise this was a book first, but I haven't yet read the book, so bear with me), when Jess Aarons goes to the museum with his teacher.

I wrote this particular preamble to give me the opportunity to collect my thoughts. I wouldn't want to give a topic of this emotional magnitude anything less than it deserves."

Thing 17: A storm destroys your uncle's shed and kills his six-year-old son. Describe the colour of the sky right before the storm hit.

A soft breeze washed over the young girl as she sat watching the grass in her uncle's field dance and sway; a steadfast stone in a sea of movement. Wisps of her hair were carried by the wind to lay sprawled over her face, only to be swept back behind her ear with the lightest touch of her hand.

Anna smiled at the simple act of it. Lost in the motion of the meadow, she had almost forgotten that it was real. The subtle dance of millions of blades of grass was a mesmerizing display of beauty, and when accented with the briliant gold of the setting sun, it took her breath away.

A handful of fluffy, golden clouds told their stories in the otherwise clear sky above. Birds sang a soft lullaby, filling the air with their soothing chorus and urging the day to rest until tomorrow. There was a calmness to this place that she wanted to never end. But even she wasn't naiive enough to think that it might.

Nothing lasts forever.