Sounds Like Fury

There was the Sound and there was the Fury and they were wrapped one around the other like moss on stone aching to roll.

The Sound was made from crying, not the gentle whisper of a tear down a cheek or the small drip of said tear bouncing softly from the floor, but rather the kind of crying that is lost in one scream after the other and implies that there is blood to be had. The Fury was holding the Sound with one hand twisted firmly behind its back.

Fury came from the little things, a series of straws stacked high upon a spitting beast of burden. The Sound didn’t build the stack, but its straw was the last one and backs had fists break down upon them.

The Sound shot like a cannon and the Fury ran a pace of grasps and ill-timed lunges. The errors would have been the stuff of comedy if not for the ringing in my ears and the trail of destruction left wide in its wake.

The path was improvised. The zigs could have easily been zags. Short sprints became long hauls and hurdles became the kind of obstacles that one might run around. The contact was inevitable.

With tears spent outnumbering the minutes gone the Sound was caught by the Fury and there was much in the way of rolling and the world ending. And then the Sound grew loud with laughter and the other followed suit. The ringing in my ears gave way to the singsong sway of sudden and unexpected joy, and the world spun madly on.

There wasn’t a care in it.