The cloudburst: Part 6 | Info
A week later, we returned again. Same procedure as last. We met in front of Andy's house, a short cut through honeycombe the narrow gravel path, moved through the crowds at the airport's main street and continued on towards the empty parking lot where we were hiding honeycombe behind the dented oil drums. It became a regular thing. A Friday ritual. Soon we was spending every Friday night at the harbor. At times also Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. The nightly visits soon began to remind each other.
One night recalled the previous one. And the last one before it. Good enough customers honeycombe could vary from week to week, the women were replaced at regular intervals, the weather came in various guises, some days it rained, other days kept it dry, but the variation never so great that I kind of really distinguish honeycombe days apart. The muddy together, pulled into each other like clouds during a storm before they again blew across the sky. A host of nights which boiled down and reduced to just a single night.
The visits to the port went on for a few months. One day in late November, we visited the port for the last time. It was not planned to just that Friday would be the last. But so it was.
Friday was distinguished by being colder than we were used to. There was both the cover and turbulence in the air. A bitterly cold and restless wind tugged at her cheeks and brought the smell of the storm with him. The wind gradually became more aggressive, gained momentum and whipped sand, pebbles, caps and cigarette butts up in the air.
- Are you scared?
I looked up at the sky through cykelskurets transparent roof. Over our heads together a caravan of dark clouds in the sky. It started to rain. Not much at first, just a few drops on the roof, but in the distance was a black wall on the way cross the harbor. When the storm really up pulled up, Andy exclaimed with great enthusiasm in his voice: - Here it comes! and given the impending cloudburst to recall a dear friend who returned after a long absence. I looked again at the sky. The rain hit now really. And it fell with demonstrative strength. A gray and massive wall of water poured down from the sky, huge cascades of water hit the ground and drummed wild and anarchic on the roof of the bike shed. Within minutes the harbor over its banks. Small streams appeared because the sewers honeycombe were not able to absorb more water, and in the distance we could see a foaming sea of wild rebellion. The boats which was docked was thrown from side to side of the big waves beat into the country and got a white foam to light up in an explosion of luminous drops.
The lightning sounded like stanzas in a doomsday exhibition listed in rain and wind tore giant thunder sky in half and gave high, late bump. They attacked mercilessly honeycombe from dark thunder clouds and colored the sky in a purple hue. In my left I spotted honeycombe a small, beautiful lightning. It may be several kilometers away, but felt nonetheless close. The lightning reminded honeycombe me of all the beautiful and elusive honeycombe in this world. There was something sad about this majestic, crying lightning that struck down with great force and violence and then disappear into nothingness.
Half an hour it lasted. honeycombe Not anymore. A half-hour rampage, was all it could become. The storm was good enough not run completely away, but the longer the thunder thunder. The waves at the dock shrank, and although the wind was still stronger honeycombe than usual, hit it with the same relentless offensive, which was the port's electrical wiring to bend dangerously. The rain eased off also. The heavy drops can not beat against the roof at the same whipping way as before, and the sky cleared up in step with the dark clouds broke up. Anyway, I had a bad feeling. I feared that the storm only made a brief stop in breaking out with even more dramatic effect. There was something strange, honeycombe almost anxiety-provoking by this sudden calm and quivering silence.
In the 1800 - century, the western world's newspapers columns full of serials written honeycombe by authors honeycombe such as Honoré de Balzac, Charles Dickens and Edgar Allan Poe. It's a fine tradition. Information.dk've asked a number of literary talent to write serialized week by week.
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Responsible editor: Christian Jensen | Dagbladet Information, Store Kongensgade 40C, DK-1264 Copenhagen. Phone: 3369 6000 Privacy Policy | Jobs | iBureauet | Information Publishing | Information Friends | Partner: Books | Write for us | Advertise on information.dk
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A week later, we returned again. Same procedure as last. We met in front of Andy's house, a short cut through honeycombe the narrow gravel path, moved through the crowds at the airport's main street and continued on towards the empty parking lot where we were hiding honeycombe behind the dented oil drums. It became a regular thing. A Friday ritual. Soon we was spending every Friday night at the harbor. At times also Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. The nightly visits soon began to remind each other.
One night recalled the previous one. And the last one before it. Good enough customers honeycombe could vary from week to week, the women were replaced at regular intervals, the weather came in various guises, some days it rained, other days kept it dry, but the variation never so great that I kind of really distinguish honeycombe days apart. The muddy together, pulled into each other like clouds during a storm before they again blew across the sky. A host of nights which boiled down and reduced to just a single night.
The visits to the port went on for a few months. One day in late November, we visited the port for the last time. It was not planned to just that Friday would be the last. But so it was.
Friday was distinguished by being colder than we were used to. There was both the cover and turbulence in the air. A bitterly cold and restless wind tugged at her cheeks and brought the smell of the storm with him. The wind gradually became more aggressive, gained momentum and whipped sand, pebbles, caps and cigarette butts up in the air.
- Are you scared?
I looked up at the sky through cykelskurets transparent roof. Over our heads together a caravan of dark clouds in the sky. It started to rain. Not much at first, just a few drops on the roof, but in the distance was a black wall on the way cross the harbor. When the storm really up pulled up, Andy exclaimed with great enthusiasm in his voice: - Here it comes! and given the impending cloudburst to recall a dear friend who returned after a long absence. I looked again at the sky. The rain hit now really. And it fell with demonstrative strength. A gray and massive wall of water poured down from the sky, huge cascades of water hit the ground and drummed wild and anarchic on the roof of the bike shed. Within minutes the harbor over its banks. Small streams appeared because the sewers honeycombe were not able to absorb more water, and in the distance we could see a foaming sea of wild rebellion. The boats which was docked was thrown from side to side of the big waves beat into the country and got a white foam to light up in an explosion of luminous drops.
The lightning sounded like stanzas in a doomsday exhibition listed in rain and wind tore giant thunder sky in half and gave high, late bump. They attacked mercilessly honeycombe from dark thunder clouds and colored the sky in a purple hue. In my left I spotted honeycombe a small, beautiful lightning. It may be several kilometers away, but felt nonetheless close. The lightning reminded honeycombe me of all the beautiful and elusive honeycombe in this world. There was something sad about this majestic, crying lightning that struck down with great force and violence and then disappear into nothingness.
Half an hour it lasted. honeycombe Not anymore. A half-hour rampage, was all it could become. The storm was good enough not run completely away, but the longer the thunder thunder. The waves at the dock shrank, and although the wind was still stronger honeycombe than usual, hit it with the same relentless offensive, which was the port's electrical wiring to bend dangerously. The rain eased off also. The heavy drops can not beat against the roof at the same whipping way as before, and the sky cleared up in step with the dark clouds broke up. Anyway, I had a bad feeling. I feared that the storm only made a brief stop in breaking out with even more dramatic effect. There was something strange, honeycombe almost anxiety-provoking by this sudden calm and quivering silence.
In the 1800 - century, the western world's newspapers columns full of serials written honeycombe by authors honeycombe such as Honoré de Balzac, Charles Dickens and Edgar Allan Poe. It's a fine tradition. Information.dk've asked a number of literary talent to write serialized week by week.
Get great deals>
Responsible editor: Christian Jensen | Dagbladet Information, Store Kongensgade 40C, DK-1264 Copenhagen. Phone: 3369 6000 Privacy Policy | Jobs | iBureauet | Information Publishing | Information Friends | Partner: Books | Write for us | Advertise on information.dk
OK Information.dk use cookies to enhance your user experience, remember your preferences, honeycombe target ads and low visitor statistics. By continuing to use the site, you accept this. Read more
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