June 2nd: Create a short story about a character navigating an unexpected change, reflecting the unpredictable nature of June weather.
The June Storm
Claire loved the predictability of her June mornings. Every day, she'd sip her steaming Earl Grey on the front porch, wrapped in a light cardigan, the air still cool but promising warmth by afternoon. The rose bushes lining her yard would sway in the soft breeze, their blooms wide and blushing—June was her constant, her anchor. Until it wasn’t.
This particular Monday began no differently. A pale sun peeked through the clouds as Claire settled into her wicker chair. But as she sipped her tea, an unexpected chill brushed her skin. She glanced up. A dark curtain of clouds had crawled in from the west, uninvited and unsettling. The roses quivered as the breeze turned sharp, tugging free petals that fluttered like wounded butterflies.
Claire frowned. The forecast had promised a calm, sunny week—where had this storm come from? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, instinctively gripping her mug tighter as the wind built strength. The first fat raindrops splattered against the porch steps, and she groaned. "Just my luck," she muttered, rising reluctantly.
Before she could fully retreat inside, a blinding fork of lightning split the sky, followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder. Startled, Claire froze. But it wasn’t the storm that held her attention—it was what lay across the street.
There, perfectly illuminated in the flash, was a figure. A man in a black coat, standing motionless on the corner by the lamppost, staring directly at her porch. He hadn’t been there before. Clair's stomach tightened. Who was he? And why was he just… standing there in the oppressive rain?
Her tea forgotten, Claire stepped closer to the edge of the porch, craning for a better look. "Hello?" she called hesitantly. Her voice barely carried over the escalating storm. The man didn’t move. Another flash revealed more details—the coat looked weathered, soaked through. His face was in shadow, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he had all the time in the world to loiter in the downpour.
An irrational sense of dread crept down her spine. "Can I help you?" she tried again, louder this time. Still, he didn’t respond. Claire’s heart began to race against her better judgment. Maybe she should call someone—the police, maybe. Or a neighbor, at the very least. But as lightning forked through the sky once more, suddenly, he was gone.
No sound, no footsteps, no fading figure in the distance. Just… gone.
Claire blinked, rain now pelting furiously against her legs as the storm fully unleashed its chaos. She stepped back inside, locking the door behind her with shaky fingers. Who was that man? A harmless stranger? A figment of her imagination? Or something less easily explained?
For the rest of June, Claire didn’t sit on the porch. She didn’t look that hard at the roses or the lamppost outside. But when the next storm rolled through—and the electricity flickered in and out—she thought she saw him again, just beyond the edge of the streetlamp’s glow.
June had always been her favorite month. Safe. Predictable. But now, Claire had learned, even June held its secrets.
The Man by the Lamppost
In the month of June, when the roses bloom,
And skies shift blue to gray,
A man appears by the old lamppost,
When storms blow dreams away.
He stands so still, in the evening chill,
With a coat as black as night.
His hat pulled low, his face unseen,
But his stare feels cold and tight.
Oh, do not call, and do not stay,
When the thunder starts to roar.
For the man by the lamppost lingers near,
And he’s watching through your door.
In cracks of light, he fades from sight,
Yet feels so close—too near.
The roses shiver, their petals fall,
As his whispers brush your ear.
Tip-toe soft, and lock your latch,
When June storms roll so wild.
For the man by the lamppost hums a tune,
And he’s searching for a child.
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