Thunderstorms in Kansas were Natures release. The clouds hung dark and heavy in the air, full of unspoken rage just waiting to come pelting down. The rain would fall in drops the size of superballs, smacking into the dusty ground with terrible force. Earth mixed with the water creating murky, swiriling rivers of alarming stregnth, englufing anything from fence posts to Ferraris that dare get in their way. Thunder would resonate through the sky, like a rumbling baratone singer, accompined by a terrific show of lightening cracking eerily through the air. Winds would splatter the driving force of the rain every which way, eating away at mud and trees and underbrush, sometimes with enough sheer engery to rip down stalks of corn or even the dead shells of once mighty pines that grew in the forests. Thunderstorms power is undeneiable and frightening, but the storms come and go, subsiding as quickly as they overtake a town. Behind them they leave destruction to be dealt with, but even so, a cleansed feeling settles over the world afterward, making it all seem new and refreshed somehow. Even the air feels cleaner after the thunderstorms burst. The clouds break apart and wander away, leaving rich, royal blue skies and a bright, golden sun behind. And all is well.
Thunderstorms are like some people; the kind that let anger build in them until they burst, then the pent up rage and hurt comes spewing out in a meltdown, leaving them relieved and more clear-minded afterward.
People like Chloe.
But Smallville was not lucky enough to have a thunderstorm that Saturday morning. Instead, the scent of impending rain hung thick through the town, choking whoever dare step foot outdoors. A heavy curtain of lead-colored clouds were draped like a veil over the heavens, hiding away the cheerful sun and deep blue sky Smallville was typically graced with. Rain trickled in and out, never a downpour, always an unsatisfying drizzle, and never enough to empty the clouds above. No wind playfully stirred the dusty drives nor thunder boomed overhead. Just the shadow of the sky looming over the town, casting a melancholly feeling over its inhabitants below. The clouds would shower down rain in short, sporatic bursts when the clouds seemed ready to bust. Some never do, just blow away. Others build up and up until finally they could hold it in no longer. They hit their breaking point and snap, unceremoniously dumping their water on the Earth in a rush, overflowing the fields and flooding the lands in a flash. These are the dangerous storms.
These kinds of storms are like other people; the kind that bottled up their anger, hold the weight of the world on their shoulders, and only let their anger and pain show through every so often in momentairly bursts. They are never satisified with that, and they anger and burden just grows and deepens within them. Some are harmless. Some are not.
People like Clark.
It was a depressing day, the kind of day that made any sane person want to curl up in bed and pull the covers over their heads. It would be days before the weather passed and anyone could hope to see the sun again, unless the clouds decided to rebel and surrender their holds to the thirsting Earth below, a mixed blessing releasing them from the spell the weather had cast over the mood of the town and delievering flash floods in its place. But Jonathan was Kansas man born and raised, having studied the weather for decades. He knew the clouds and their secrets with a chilling acuracy, and today he felt sure the latter would not be the case. No, today, he decided, was just a case of an acute bad mood and weather, and he surmised that a change of scene was just what his family needed to get out of their funk. So Jonathan pulled his family out of bed to attend the weekly Farmer's Market held at the other end of town where the Kent's sold Martha's prized organic produce to the crowds.
Wearily, Clark had gotten up before dawn, (which never did break that day), to finish his chores and load up the truck for his father. He tried all morning to shake off the depression that was blanketing him, but he was never entirely successful. Chloe's words from the day before still stung at him like old wounds, her voice constantly echoing through his mind and distracting him, even from the beautiful breakfast Martha had prepared to cheer him up. Though Clark didn't notice, both parents were worried about him, not just because of the problems of the last couple weeks, but because of his reaction to them. He'd had troubles before, but he had always found a way to beat them head on. For some reason, something was getting the better of him this time around. Some mental phobia or feeling of being completely overwhelmed, that his mom could sense off him. So when time rolled around to start off for the Market, Martha stopped him at the door.
"Clark, honey?" She put her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to straighten him posture and stand up to his full height. She perked up on her toes and cupped his chin lovingly in her plam, pulling it down toward her, coercing him look her directly in the eyes. His face was full of surpressed sadness, and a glum tone hung there that she hadn't seen on her son since he'd found out his true orgins and fled to the graveyard. Martha lovingly brushed back his hair and pulled him into a hug. "It's going to be alright sweetheart. Don't let it get you down, at least not today. Things may seem awful--"
Clark interrupted and drew back a little, just enough so her could peer down into his mom's face. "Seem awful?" he intoned.
"Okay, are awful," she sighed. "But you know, you've still got your father and me. You can't pretend you don't know how much we love you, Clark, no matter how much the world might be going topsy-turvy right now. And then there's Pete. Maybe you can find him at the Market. I made some cookies last night, I could pack a few and you two could go hang out at the Talon for a while afterward, have some cookies with your lunch." A warm smile filled her face, but she couldn't make it reach her eyes, not with her son so upset.
Clark and Martha had seperated, her still refusing to break the gaze they shared. "A few chocolate chip cookies don't solve my problems anymore, Mom," he replied. The words were supposed to be sullen, but she couldn't help but notice the smile on his lips as he said them. She knew it wouldn't take much more persauding to get him to take them.
"Maybe not, but they can't hurt. Their your favorites and my specialty, afterall, and we can't let your father eat them all. Again."
"Alright, you win." He grinned this time. "I'll take the cookies." Clark grabbed the bag of fresh cookies off the counter and held the kitchen door open for his mother. She murmurred her thanks and the pair clambered into the truck, Martha riding shot-gun and Clark spreading himself across the whole backseat and cramping his legs to fit. Jonathan locked up the house and jumped in the drivers seat, pulling down the long drive just as another drizzle, slightly harder then before, poured out of the clouds and splatter on the windshield of the speeding, loaded down truck.
By the time they hit the asphalt of the main road, the rain started coming down in sheets. It was nothing coming compared to the thunderstorms they normally got this time of year, but still enough to slick down the old paved road and make flowing, rising rivers in the irigation canals on either side. Jonathan kicked the window wipers up a notch as they rambled down the two lane highway. He cursed himself for not getting the car in for repairs the week before. The wheels needed rebalancing and the treads on the back wheels were starting to wear down. He had to fight the wheel a bit to keep on track. Not enough to raise any alarms, but still noticable to him.
Martha stared out the front window, studying the patterns the water made in the road in front of them. It swirled and splattered, sending ripples through the puddles covering the asphalt. It twisted and turned, slidding gracefully off the edge and started to mix with the dust and muck near the canal like a kalidascope. Though such a small thing, it mesmorized her with it's beauty as the yellow glow from their headlights threw odd colors across the pools of water. Her worry for her son never left her and she was lost in thoughts of how to solve at least one of Clark's problems for him, as she gazed across the landscape of the open road ahead.
Clark was off in his own little world, bitterly replaying Chloe's tirade of the day before through his mind. 'You should know that, Clark...' 'So just back off, Clark, and get the hell out of my life...' Her tear-stained face and shaking body swam through the fog enveloping his mind. It had tormented him the last few days, and had rendered him oblivious to the world around him for the last 12 or so hours. Now was not the exception. In the days to come, Clark would kick himself for being so self-involved. But even he, with all his stupendous powers, couldn't change what would happen next.
Still staring out, Martha's breathe caught in her chest. From the illumination of the headlights, she saw a branch lying in the road. It wasn't just a stick they could glide over in their four-wheel drive truck, but a branch that looked as though someone had sawed it off a tree. It lay strewn haphazardly across the highway, not ten feet in front of them. Two other cars were heading in the other direction to the left, effectively cutting off the other lane, and to the right was the irigation ditch was steadily filling with water and would crash the truck. They had no way to swerve to avoid it, no way to escape the inevitable impact.
"Jonathan!" The shrill shreik came from her mouth half a second before the car hit, snapping Clark from his thoughts moments too late.
The right front wheel hit first, launching the car in the air. It landed badly on the wheel and the metal groaned against the weight of not only the truck and its riders, but half a dozed crates of veggies in the bed. The back tires blew as they landed on the sharp branch as well, causing the car to fish-tail and spin out, loosing several cases on the way. The weight unexpectedly shifting tipped the truck, making it do a complete 360 before landing on its wheels and diving into the ditch. Hood embedded in the muck, the car finally stopped.
A little dizzy from the spin, Clark caught his breathe and lifted himself from where he was trapped in the backseat. His seatbelt had broken and now there was a Clark-shaped dent in the wall of the truck he'd collided with. Cautiously, he bent the metal enough to facilitate his escape, and settled in the back in the remains of the seat. Glass was covering everything and had shredded parts of the fabric. He knew he'd knocked his head several times, but the impacts had hurt the truck more than him, making odd dents in the roof and the floor. Gasping, his unnatural eyes grew wide when he saw the front of the car.
Both his parents were covered with scraps and shards of glass. The whole front seat had been pushed forward on his mothers side, pinning her right leg between the door, dash, and seat. Her head had broken the passengars window, leaving a nasty gash on her head. Her arm was bloody and she lay limp in against her seat belt. 'Concussion,' he thought, scanning her her leg and finding it broken in two places. Her arm wasn't broken, but two of her ribs didn't line up. Shifting his glance, he studied his dad. If possible, he looked worse. The seat belt had some how wound around his arm, breaking it. The steering wheel was jammed against his chest, pinning him in place, and there was a deep cut winding down from beside his eye to his chin. His hair was matted with blood and his legs were stuck under the dash. Three ribs were broken and it looked like there might be internal bleeding. Jonathan's right ankle was shattered brutally by the petals. He wasn't moving. At all. Worst yet, the bottom of the truck was taking on water. The canal they'd been stuck in was steadily rising, and the water was seeping in through the doors. It wasn't high enough yet, but his parents would get hypothermia if they were submerged too long.
Outside, Clark remained calm and steady, but inside, he was panicking. Somberly, he couldn't help but let that sheer terror creep into his voice. "Mom? Dad?" he whispered, then spoke, then yelled, shaking his mom and then his dad in turn. There was no response.
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on.
Thunderstorms are like some people; the kind that let anger build in them until they burst, then the pent up rage and hurt comes spewing out in a meltdown, leaving them relieved and more clear-minded afterward.
People like Chloe.
But Smallville was not lucky enough to have a thunderstorm that Saturday morning. Instead, the scent of impending rain hung thick through the town, choking whoever dare step foot outdoors. A heavy curtain of lead-colored clouds were draped like a veil over the heavens, hiding away the cheerful sun and deep blue sky Smallville was typically graced with. Rain trickled in and out, never a downpour, always an unsatisfying drizzle, and never enough to empty the clouds above. No wind playfully stirred the dusty drives nor thunder boomed overhead. Just the shadow of the sky looming over the town, casting a melancholly feeling over its inhabitants below. The clouds would shower down rain in short, sporatic bursts when the clouds seemed ready to bust. Some never do, just blow away. Others build up and up until finally they could hold it in no longer. They hit their breaking point and snap, unceremoniously dumping their water on the Earth in a rush, overflowing the fields and flooding the lands in a flash. These are the dangerous storms.
These kinds of storms are like other people; the kind that bottled up their anger, hold the weight of the world on their shoulders, and only let their anger and pain show through every so often in momentairly bursts. They are never satisified with that, and they anger and burden just grows and deepens within them. Some are harmless. Some are not.
People like Clark.
It was a depressing day, the kind of day that made any sane person want to curl up in bed and pull the covers over their heads. It would be days before the weather passed and anyone could hope to see the sun again, unless the clouds decided to rebel and surrender their holds to the thirsting Earth below, a mixed blessing releasing them from the spell the weather had cast over the mood of the town and delievering flash floods in its place. But Jonathan was Kansas man born and raised, having studied the weather for decades. He knew the clouds and their secrets with a chilling acuracy, and today he felt sure the latter would not be the case. No, today, he decided, was just a case of an acute bad mood and weather, and he surmised that a change of scene was just what his family needed to get out of their funk. So Jonathan pulled his family out of bed to attend the weekly Farmer's Market held at the other end of town where the Kent's sold Martha's prized organic produce to the crowds.
Wearily, Clark had gotten up before dawn, (which never did break that day), to finish his chores and load up the truck for his father. He tried all morning to shake off the depression that was blanketing him, but he was never entirely successful. Chloe's words from the day before still stung at him like old wounds, her voice constantly echoing through his mind and distracting him, even from the beautiful breakfast Martha had prepared to cheer him up. Though Clark didn't notice, both parents were worried about him, not just because of the problems of the last couple weeks, but because of his reaction to them. He'd had troubles before, but he had always found a way to beat them head on. For some reason, something was getting the better of him this time around. Some mental phobia or feeling of being completely overwhelmed, that his mom could sense off him. So when time rolled around to start off for the Market, Martha stopped him at the door.
"Clark, honey?" She put her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to straighten him posture and stand up to his full height. She perked up on her toes and cupped his chin lovingly in her plam, pulling it down toward her, coercing him look her directly in the eyes. His face was full of surpressed sadness, and a glum tone hung there that she hadn't seen on her son since he'd found out his true orgins and fled to the graveyard. Martha lovingly brushed back his hair and pulled him into a hug. "It's going to be alright sweetheart. Don't let it get you down, at least not today. Things may seem awful--"
Clark interrupted and drew back a little, just enough so her could peer down into his mom's face. "Seem awful?" he intoned.
"Okay, are awful," she sighed. "But you know, you've still got your father and me. You can't pretend you don't know how much we love you, Clark, no matter how much the world might be going topsy-turvy right now. And then there's Pete. Maybe you can find him at the Market. I made some cookies last night, I could pack a few and you two could go hang out at the Talon for a while afterward, have some cookies with your lunch." A warm smile filled her face, but she couldn't make it reach her eyes, not with her son so upset.
Clark and Martha had seperated, her still refusing to break the gaze they shared. "A few chocolate chip cookies don't solve my problems anymore, Mom," he replied. The words were supposed to be sullen, but she couldn't help but notice the smile on his lips as he said them. She knew it wouldn't take much more persauding to get him to take them.
"Maybe not, but they can't hurt. Their your favorites and my specialty, afterall, and we can't let your father eat them all. Again."
"Alright, you win." He grinned this time. "I'll take the cookies." Clark grabbed the bag of fresh cookies off the counter and held the kitchen door open for his mother. She murmurred her thanks and the pair clambered into the truck, Martha riding shot-gun and Clark spreading himself across the whole backseat and cramping his legs to fit. Jonathan locked up the house and jumped in the drivers seat, pulling down the long drive just as another drizzle, slightly harder then before, poured out of the clouds and splatter on the windshield of the speeding, loaded down truck.
By the time they hit the asphalt of the main road, the rain started coming down in sheets. It was nothing coming compared to the thunderstorms they normally got this time of year, but still enough to slick down the old paved road and make flowing, rising rivers in the irigation canals on either side. Jonathan kicked the window wipers up a notch as they rambled down the two lane highway. He cursed himself for not getting the car in for repairs the week before. The wheels needed rebalancing and the treads on the back wheels were starting to wear down. He had to fight the wheel a bit to keep on track. Not enough to raise any alarms, but still noticable to him.
Martha stared out the front window, studying the patterns the water made in the road in front of them. It swirled and splattered, sending ripples through the puddles covering the asphalt. It twisted and turned, slidding gracefully off the edge and started to mix with the dust and muck near the canal like a kalidascope. Though such a small thing, it mesmorized her with it's beauty as the yellow glow from their headlights threw odd colors across the pools of water. Her worry for her son never left her and she was lost in thoughts of how to solve at least one of Clark's problems for him, as she gazed across the landscape of the open road ahead.
Clark was off in his own little world, bitterly replaying Chloe's tirade of the day before through his mind. 'You should know that, Clark...' 'So just back off, Clark, and get the hell out of my life...' Her tear-stained face and shaking body swam through the fog enveloping his mind. It had tormented him the last few days, and had rendered him oblivious to the world around him for the last 12 or so hours. Now was not the exception. In the days to come, Clark would kick himself for being so self-involved. But even he, with all his stupendous powers, couldn't change what would happen next.
Still staring out, Martha's breathe caught in her chest. From the illumination of the headlights, she saw a branch lying in the road. It wasn't just a stick they could glide over in their four-wheel drive truck, but a branch that looked as though someone had sawed it off a tree. It lay strewn haphazardly across the highway, not ten feet in front of them. Two other cars were heading in the other direction to the left, effectively cutting off the other lane, and to the right was the irigation ditch was steadily filling with water and would crash the truck. They had no way to swerve to avoid it, no way to escape the inevitable impact.
"Jonathan!" The shrill shreik came from her mouth half a second before the car hit, snapping Clark from his thoughts moments too late.
The right front wheel hit first, launching the car in the air. It landed badly on the wheel and the metal groaned against the weight of not only the truck and its riders, but half a dozed crates of veggies in the bed. The back tires blew as they landed on the sharp branch as well, causing the car to fish-tail and spin out, loosing several cases on the way. The weight unexpectedly shifting tipped the truck, making it do a complete 360 before landing on its wheels and diving into the ditch. Hood embedded in the muck, the car finally stopped.
A little dizzy from the spin, Clark caught his breathe and lifted himself from where he was trapped in the backseat. His seatbelt had broken and now there was a Clark-shaped dent in the wall of the truck he'd collided with. Cautiously, he bent the metal enough to facilitate his escape, and settled in the back in the remains of the seat. Glass was covering everything and had shredded parts of the fabric. He knew he'd knocked his head several times, but the impacts had hurt the truck more than him, making odd dents in the roof and the floor. Gasping, his unnatural eyes grew wide when he saw the front of the car.
Both his parents were covered with scraps and shards of glass. The whole front seat had been pushed forward on his mothers side, pinning her right leg between the door, dash, and seat. Her head had broken the passengars window, leaving a nasty gash on her head. Her arm was bloody and she lay limp in against her seat belt. 'Concussion,' he thought, scanning her her leg and finding it broken in two places. Her arm wasn't broken, but two of her ribs didn't line up. Shifting his glance, he studied his dad. If possible, he looked worse. The seat belt had some how wound around his arm, breaking it. The steering wheel was jammed against his chest, pinning him in place, and there was a deep cut winding down from beside his eye to his chin. His hair was matted with blood and his legs were stuck under the dash. Three ribs were broken and it looked like there might be internal bleeding. Jonathan's right ankle was shattered brutally by the petals. He wasn't moving. At all. Worst yet, the bottom of the truck was taking on water. The canal they'd been stuck in was steadily rising, and the water was seeping in through the doors. It wasn't high enough yet, but his parents would get hypothermia if they were submerged too long.
Outside, Clark remained calm and steady, but inside, he was panicking. Somberly, he couldn't help but let that sheer terror creep into his voice. "Mom? Dad?" he whispered, then spoke, then yelled, shaking his mom and then his dad in turn. There was no response.
Thoughts? Feelings? Rant on.