Lightning Petals

By Lori Ann Nelson

“April showers bring May flowers.” That’s what my grandma always said when I ran to hide under the table as thunder cracked the sky.

She claimed our family were the shepherds of this process, that the lightning couldn’t reach the plants without our help. Lightning Petal Farmers, everyone else called us. We ensured that the glowing blooms opened up each spring. We tended to them as Grandma did, and her mother before her. And she insisted the same lightning flowed through me as salt through a sailor’s veins.

Now, Grandma’s duty has followed me to adulthood and it’s my task to plant the lightning rods and tend the fields as the clouds roll over. Their gray, puffy towers swallow the last rays of sunlight in the cool of the evening while I stay outside to prepare the rods for tonight’s rain. My calloused fingers twist a rod deeper into the ground. The neighbor’s porch lights flick on, a sign their farm work is finished. Bugs congregate around the cobwebby fixtures, buzzing in the humid air.

Lightning streaks through the clouds of a distant storm while thunder rumbles. I should be heading inside, but the flowers won’t glow without the bolts of electricity running through the rods to strike the seeds. Two more to go. As I push down the next one, a tingle races through my fingers. It’s coming—the wind. Shivers run up my arms as I thrust the last rod in place.

Grandma would tell me to run inside and wait for daybreak—let the storm do its job. I follow that advice and run to the safety of my little brick home. The first leaves won’t sprout for some time, leaving me a few weeks to prepare for starry-eyed guests ready to observe the fields carpeted with lightning trapped in delicate petals.

Walls creak against the shove of the wind as I close the door. The gale whistling through the grove of trees fades as quickly as it came. Lightning flares in a curtain of blinding light. I abandon the idea of dinner when the bulbs above the table flicker out. The holoTV turns on with a bright red warning: “Take Shelter. Tornado in Proximity.”

“No, no, no!” I rush to the window, cupping my hands against the glass.

I squint to see through flashes. Beyond the grass pressed flat against the ground, a bolt hits one of the rods, electricity racing down to seep into a seed below. Another strike. The mud glows faintly with each successful transfer to a seed. Maybe the whirlwind will miss the farm after all.

I’ve spoken too soon.

A rod at the field’s edge slips out of the ground as leaves hit the window with the harshness of a hailstorm. My heart stutters as the wind becomes wrathful enough to snatch the seeds my hands had sowed along with the metal equipment. The other lightning rods are sucked out of the dirt, and one surging with electricity strikes my window. Yelping as sparks strike my skin, I dart away from flying shards while descending the narrow stairs of my storm shelter.

My hands slide the door shut, feet stumbling back. Something crashes into the floor above with a bang that rattles my bones. I collapse into the wooden chair I’d left down here after last year’s storm. Its splinters dig into my clothes. The green and red lights of the holoradar show the storm’s main onslaught is directly above the farm. I’m forced to listen to the winds tear apart all my hard work. Grandma would faint if she knew the equipment—passed down from her mother—is being stolen by the supercell.

By morning, the roaring wind has ceased. Fear shakes my hands as my fingers twist the lock and slide the door open. The first rays of sunlight filter through a now-missing corner of the roof. Wet leaves scatter across the wooden floorboards as I emerge from the shelter. My shoulders shudder in the crisp air and the scent of kicked up dirt invades my nose as I push the door with my boot. The hinges creak before breaking free of the doorframe, mud splattering across the torn grass when it falls.

I step over the fallen door, then race into the field. My ankle rolls on the uneven ground, a spike of pain dropping me to my knees. My hands bury themselves in the mud in a desperate search. The lightning rods are gone, but maybe some of the seeds survived the tornado’s suction powers. I hold one, its shell smooth against my skin. No lightning flickers inside the gray seed. Decades of my family’s cultivation ruined overnight. It will take another year’s work to rebuild for next spring. Tears well up, my fingers clinging to the lifeless husk. No one will visit the wildflowers this year.

One of my veins glows with lightning, crackling from my skin into the seed’s shell. With a gasp, I fling it back into the mud, and a spark of life races across the ground. I jump up as more lights sprout around me. Green stems slither over my boots and curl around each other. Leaves lush as fresh lettuce spread out like umbrellas, filtering the soft morning glow. Clusters of bluebonnets, morning glories, and thistle spring up with lightning arcing across their petals.

I’m lost in a jungle of green and blossoms as striking as the stars I wish upon each night. I twirl among the towering plants, crying out for joy. The lightning rods held true—the seeds sprouted early with the greatest growth I’ve ever seen! More mud clings to my pants and dew to my hair as I dance like a fool under the brilliant red sunrise. The farm will have visitors this year after all.

Grandma was right. April showers do bring flowers—flowers grown from the lightning in my veins.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lori Ann Nelson often vanishes into the realms of her imagination where she creates intriguing science fiction worlds or writes posts to encourage her fellow chronic illness warriors. Her goal is to pen words that give encouragement to her readers as well as a little adventure. She enjoys nature photography while roaming the great outdoors and watching old shows. She currently resides in Texas with her family and her Great Pyrenees mix pup, Viridis.

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