Prose, No. 1 - Storm

It began to rain shortly after the sun fell. It came in sheets and torrents, pelting down over the rooftops; it flooded down the gutters; it washed the leaves and dust away. The sound of rain roared in the silent city, it shone in the moonlight where it gathered in low places. Brick and tile grew slick and dark; windows were drawn shut; but doors were flung open and faces came out to look at the sky. The smell of regret began to drift through the streets. Soldiers' boots sounded louder against wet concrete. Even in the storm, they barged through the city, laughing and marching as though the sun were out and the clouds were gone. They seemed wholly unconcealed with the rain, if they noticed it at all.
The wind and rain beat at the brittle houses for hours and hours. All the time, the ocean raged below the city. 'I'll get you, I'll get you' it wanted to scream; instead it writhed and tore at the rock, intent on pulling it down so the city could be in reach. Lightning howled; lights went out; all at once the city was plunged into darkness and silence. Someone lit candles and set them in their windows. The tiny lights showed when the curtains quivered. The sandbags draped sadly against the skirting boards of the houses by the clifftop began to feel pitifully small.
Someone was out that night, walking in the rain with the smell of lightning and salt in their lungs and a coat wrapped tightly around their shoulders. They were hunched over a package of some kind, hiding it; the wind was getting handsy. A scarf muttered in the gale and tugged at their throat. They went out along the cliff that night, to a house that could see the ocean, pushed through the door and were gone.
'I'll get you still' the ocean promised.