Thundercounting

When does the family document the thunder? With each and every crack. The four of them--mother, father, sister, brother--sit in silence at the dining table, each with a candle in a glass enclosure before them, a small scratch pad covered in hash marks, and a new blue Bic pen.

The lightning does not faze them. Neither the static crackle as it blasts the trees around the house, nor the wind that whips through the open window and flickers the flames about the room as it musses their hair, even slows down their thundercounting.

 If they wanted to talk to each other, they would have to shout over the wind and the hail that pelts the roof and the torrents of rain that pour from the sky in a constant waterfall. But they do not talk, and show no signs of wanting to.

The water comes in with the wind but none of them are wet. None of their paper is wet. Indeed, it seems as though the water affects nothing, although it begins to pool up in the corners of the room.

The dog sits in his puddle, counting the water droplets as they roll towards him, each one meeting with a tail flick. The cat does nothing but lick its paw in an unceasing pattern.

There is neither sign of the storm's abatement nor indication that the family is aware of anything but the incessant thunder.