The Thunder Rolls

[CertifiablyBasic]

The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules. " (Rule 2.b.iii)


This is my first time posting, would love feedback, and be patient with me as I set the scene and build the story.



Tracey dragged the last sandbag into place along the low ridge. The levee wasn’t pretty, it was crooked and stubborn. A stitched‑together spine of burlap and grit, but it would do the job it was intended for.

She’d spent the better part of the last two days building it, muscles burning, fingers raw, checking and rechecking every seam. Making sure it was tall enough. Long enough. Heavy enough to hold back whatever the sky decided to throw at her.

The air had that charged stillness she recognized from her last year in Libby, Montana. The kind that made the hairs on her arms lift before the first crack of thunder. Libby had taught her how to survive storms that didn’t care if you were ready. How to board windows so the wind couldn’t pry them open. How to stock a pantry and that backup generators, while great, could also still fail and what to do when they did. She’d learned all of it the hard way, and she’d learned it well.

She straightened, breath fogging in the cooling air, and shoved a curl out of her eyes. It sprang back immediately, wild and damp and defiant—just like she felt. Mud clung to her boots. Her flannel smelled of pine sap and candle wax. Her arms ached in that good, grounding way that came from doing something real with her hands instead of letting her mind spiral.

Inside, the house glowed amber under the last smear of sunset. She’d already accepted she’d lose the light soon; the storm had been marching toward her all afternoon, slow but inevitable. But it would be fine. She had candles, candles that lined just about every flat surface in her home. Fat ones, skinny ones, lavender-scented ones she didn’t remember buying. If she had it, it was out and ready to be lit.

The generator hummed in the corner, steady and loyal, promising cold milk and running water even if the world outside drowned.

Her phone buzzed as she walked through the backdoor, careful not to track mud inside.

Tracey sighed, tugged off her gloves with her teeth, toed off her shoes, and answered. “Hi, Mom.”

“Tracey, honey, are you at home?” Her mother’s voice came thin and stretched, like it was fighting through static. “The weather channel says the river could crest by morning. You need to leave. I don’t care if it’s raining already—just pack a bag and drive—”

“Mom, I’m fine,” Tracey said, calm but firm as she moved throughout the house. Closing and locking windows, checking on other last minute things.

“Tracey–”

“I promise, Mom, I’ll be fine. I built the levee. I’ve got candles, bottled water, food for at least two weeks. The truck’s parked uphill.”

“That doesn’t mean anything if the power goes out and the roads flood—”

“I live in Montana,” Tracey cut in gently. “Rain is basically a roommate here, this storm will be no different. Besides, I have the backup generator and I bought that fishing boat you told me to. If things get bad, I’ll use it to find dry land.”

A low rumble rolled across the mountains—deep, resonant, like something enormous waking up. The windows trembled. A promise of what was about to come, a threat. And maybe, just maybe, she’d be using that boat…

Her mother exhaled sharply. “You always think you’re tougher than the storm.”

Tracey leaned back against the closest wall. They were doing this again apparently. She understood why—her stubborn streak had hurt her more than it had saved her over the years, but she was determined.

Her gaze drifted to the narrow mirror by the door. The reflection staring back at her still felt like a stranger. Late twenties. Sharp cheekbones. Curls escaping in feral spirals. Eyes that looked older than she felt. Weather‑touched skin. Freckles. Hips she’d spent years trying to shrink to fit into his simple minded beauty standard.

Not pretty enough, whispered a voice she’d driven twelve hours north just to escape.

Libby had been her reset button. A place where rain washed away her past, the weather didn’t pretend to be gentle, and the men were scarce. It was exactly what she needed after the shit-show that was her past relationship. After she all but lost everything she was to a man who never believed she was good enough.

“Tracey?” her mother said. “Are you listening?”

“I am,” she lied.

There was a shuffle on the other end, then a deeper voice came through.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Her shoulders instantly loosened at his voice. “Hi, Dad.”

“Did you build a levee?”

“Yes, sir. Staggered rows. Weighted base. Ugly, and might kill parts of my yard, but it will do.”

He chuckled. “That’s my girl. Generator ready?”

“And the fuel topped off.”

“Good. You’re all set then?”

“Yep.” She just had one more window left to close, then everything would be perfect.

“And you’ll call if things change?”

“I promise.”

A long pause. Rain began to drum harder, each drop hitting the tin roof like fingertips tapping for attention.

“You don’t have to prove anything you know,” her father said quietly.

Tracey swallowed. “I know.” She glanced at her reflection again. At the woman trying to believe that. She actually had a lot to prove.

That she could, in fact, do this.
That she wasn’t as weak as everyone thought.
That she could weather this storm.

“I’ll call you in the morning dad.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She hung up. The house fell into a hush so complete it felt unnatural, as if the walls themselves were bracing. Outside, the wind rose in a sudden, violent shove. Rain shifted from tapping to striking. Thunder cracked closer—sharp, immediate, like the sky splitting open.

Tracey stepped up to the window, looking out at the storm, “Not afraid of you,” she murmured to the wind before reaching out and closing the shutters and sliding the glass pain back into place.
The storm, in response, lit up the sky in bright, electric light. Thunder came rolling in not even a full second later.

The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then the house dropped into darkness as thunder roared overhead, rattling the windows and making the levee outside tremble like it was alive.




He watched her from the tree line, the stormlight turning her into a silhouette of motion and grit. She dragged the last sandbag into place, breath steady, shoulders squared. Most people panicked when the weather turned like this. She prepared. She planned. She built.

Like the shutters she’d put on every window a few months back, making the house look like a fortress. She’d reinforced the hinges last week, thinking it would keep the wind out. She didn’t realize it would also keep the world from seeing in.
He liked that. Privacy suited her.

It would suit them.

His gaze drifted to the woodpile stacked beneath the overhang. Perfectly arranged, each log angled so the runoff would slide away instead of soaking in. Smart. Practical. She’d learned from someone — he wondered who — but she’d improved on the method. She always improved things. Even herself, though she didn’t see it.

She thought she was messy. Too soft. Too much. She’d all but confessed as much to her nosy mother over the phone. He, of course, saw none of that.

He saw strength in the curve of her hips, determination in the set of her jaw, beauty in the wildness of her curls. He admired all of it, loved, all of it.

The air thickened, humming with electricity. The storm was close now. She didn’t flinch when thunder rolled across the valley. She just wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and headed inside.

He moved then. Quietly. Closer.
Her shutters rattled as the wind picked up, masking the sound of his steps. The generator hummed behind the house, steady and loyal. She trusted it. She trusted a lot of things she probably shouldn’t. He paused beside it, listening to the rhythm of the engine, imagining how quickly the house would fall silent if it stopped. How she’d stand in the dark, steadying herself, thinking it was just the storm. How she’d likely light the candles and wait, possibly until morning, before checking to see why the backup failed her.

Thunder cracked overhead, sharp enough to make the shutters jump. Perfect timing. The kind of sound that swallowed smaller ones whole. Like the switch of the generator being flipped, and the machine sputtering off.

He smirked as he reached the back porch. The boards creaked under her weight when she walked here, but not under his. He knew where to step. He’d learned her house the way some people learned a lover’s body — slowly, reverently, with attention to every weakness.

Inside, she moved about, unaware of the shadow that followed her. That was always following her. So convinced she was alone. Safe. ‘Fine.’
He rested his hand on the doorknob, testing it softly. Not enough to open, or even make a sound, just enough to know what he already suspected. She hadn’t locked it.

Usually she was diligent, it was the first thing she did upon entering, but the combination of the storm, and the phone call she was currently on, had distracted her just enough that it must have slipped her mind. A mistake she would soon regret, but hopefully not for too long if he had his way with things.

The storm growled overhead, a long, rolling rumble that shook the frame. A sound loud enough to hide anything.

He turned the knob— the soft click swallowed by thunder, the door easing open, the warm air brushing his face as he stepped inside just as her lights flickered once, twice, then plunged them into darkness.

[Blue]

@CertifiablyBasic

[Shocker]

Don’t worry about the pacing of your story, you have me rather firmly hooked, and while I’m anxiously looking forward to the next part, I would like to hold of rating your story just . The way things are shaping up I have little doubt that full marks are going to be in order.

The possibilities of assaulting a competent woman in a space where no outside help can possibly occur, is a tantalizing scenario.