This isn't really a short story but rather a possible beginning to a story. It's rough, written at 3 in the morning, and the first thing I've been able to write in the past few months. I just need an impression. Someone. Speaketh to me. Like I said, it's the beginning of a whole story, so not all of it might make sense. But just say what you think. Thanks, kids.
This is a story about clouds.
They float, more or less. They're fluffy and they float because they're clouds, and that's what they're supposed to do, I guess.
I suppose to most people clouds aren't such a big deal considering they're always in the sky taking some sort of form or another, whether that be cirrus, cumulus, stratiform, or in the shape of an old man's face.
I think people pay more attention to clouds as little kids because there's nothing else to care about at that age besides the color of their gummy bears, and that doesn't matter for long anyways because they really all taste pretty much the same.
But this story about clouds has to do with what we don't always notice about them and about what they could mean to us if we ever paid enough attention.
There's something about the way they move.
Nothing in this world exists so freely as a cloud, and I say that as a fact. That's because they appear sometimes in a crowd or sometimes on their own, and then they simply drift along as though they care nothing for where they're going or why they'e even heading there in the first place.
There's something about the way they disappear.
In this story, I saw a cloud cross the length of the sky. And when it finally faded, I remembered where I was. And I remembered where I could be if only I would sit by the window more often.
There's just something about the clouds that taught me how to breathe.
