East Fork:

A Journal of the Arts​​


By Aaron Fletcher

     What I would fear most about the storm outside, is that it would end. Thus, leaving the storm to rage on inside of the place I know as home.
The rough and grumpy clouds, harboring the tumultuous thunder and ravenous lightning, would lead us outside. My father was the first to go. He would see the rolling clouds and hear the crashing thunder before any of us, and out he would go to face the forces of nature on his own front porch. I would follow closely behind, wanting so dearly to be like my family’s patriarch in every way. My mother and brother would soon follow suit, leaving the house empty, with all its residents facing the danger outside.
     Lightning and then thunder. That is the only order I have come to understand. I would count between the strike and the crash, listening to the rain in the calm silence between. The rain isn’t always there; But it always seems like it should be. Without it, the calm is gone and the void is left empty. The only occupants being the numbers I slowly count off to myself. Distance. That is what I am trying to find. Do I just count the seconds? Do I count and then divide by two? It doesn’t matter because I will never know and it keeps changing. It gets closer and closer, leaving me hardly any room to count.
Strike... Silence... Crash... Strike.. Silence.. Crash.. Strike. Silence. Crash.
And all the while, the rain keeps count of the seconds in between.

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Editor's Choice

Issue 16 - Spring 2018

Missing Home

​By Amanda Wittmer