The Smell Of Rain

With little warning, the assault begins. The first kamikaze drops scatter in suicide formation across the cracked pavement in front of his house, paving the way for the rest of the raindrops to follow.

And what an assault it is!

He stands transfixed behind the grilled door of his home, safe from the tempestuous monsoon raging on the outside. The rain is pelting down, and it is so heavy that at times it seems like it is just white sheets of water travelling from the right side of his sight to the left. The balcony above the driveway collects the water and sends ripples of a cascading waterfall down the windscreen of Mum's car.

And then there is the lightning. Tree splitting lightning. The kind of lightning that kills modems. It is not some event in the distant horizon, this is the kind of lightning that flashes metres away from you. The sudden bright incandesence of light purple that causes you to blink in reflex and your body to reel away in terror.

And then follows the thunder. The crackle followed by bass voice of God rumbling above, sometimes threatening, other times outwardly screaming. The earth shudders with each note.

He leans forward against the grills, resting his mouth on his arms and he thinks about how rare these things are in Melbourne. There are only the occasional thunderstorms there, but here, here there is a daily reminder that we are not the ones in charge.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

He closes his eyes and remembers two children a lifetime ago, his older brother and him. He must have been four at the time and his brother, six. Decked out in striped T-shirts and green shorts. Toy machine guns in their little hands (with tiny stickers on each side).

The weather was similar to the one today - violent, complete with the flashbang of lightning and the booming cannons of thunder. But they were fearless little soldiers, fighting against this unseen angry enemy outside. Their fort was the wooden door that once stood about a metre away from the grilled door. And they would time themselves - charging out when there was a lull and then they would scream their little lungs out and press the triggers, their toy guns responding with a mechanical rat-a-tat-a-tat.

And then the enemy would respond - in God like fashion, its booming laughter mocking the pitiful sounds of their machine guns. Their little hearts would race, and they would beat a hasty retreat behind the closed door, and, slumped against the safety of the door, their little mouths would laugh out of sheer relief, that they have lived to fight another day.