short fiction · 2026-10-07

The Smell of Thunder

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

She paused on the porch step, hand on the rusted railing, and inhaled. The air smelled of wet concrete and ozone, sharp and clean, like the moment before a storm breaks. Instantly, she was ten years old again, barefoot on the hot asphalt of her grandmother's driveway, waiting for the first fat drops of rain. She remembered the way the light had turned greenish, the way the crickets had stopped chirping, the way her grandmother had called from the screen door, "Come inside, child, before you get soaked." She had laughed and shaken her head, wanting to feel the first drops on her skin. The memory was so vivid she could feel the static prickle on her arms, the smell of hot pavement rising as the rain hit it. She opened her eyes to the present sky, still blue, but the promise of thunder hummed in the air.