So, I got my cello-crazy cousin to enter the same writing contest that I entered yesterday. 
She’s not a ‘writer’ per se, because she’s, well, as I said before, cello-crazy.
But pretty much, her writing *almost* makes me drool.
Ok, so that was kinda gross sounding, but I think you get my point.
Anyway, I’m posting her entry, too. Hope y’all like it!
Call me silly, but I think this picture is cute. =)
{Taken by my ‘adopted’ mom}
Thunder. Yes, Thunder. Heart-breaking Thunder. It was appropriate. Scandalous Thunder. The thunder that is so loud, and breath-taking, your heart stops. The thunder that meets lightening halfway for a startling jerk. Thunder that shook the frame of a house.
That’s who we were dealing with. His name is Thunder. And it’s appropriate in all forms. Who would name a child Thunder? The thought had echoed in my mind, time and time again. But every time, I was shown how the name fit him in every way. 
He was here. Then he was there. Was there such thing as heart-to-heart conversation? Eye contact? Sincerity? Not with Thunder. Well, not very often. But, when it did happen. When he did look into your eyes. When he was sincere. When you spoke your heart to him. He listened. With his heart. With his mind. With his soul. And when you did become vulnerable, you were safe. Safe in his presence. 
Everything with Thunder is a blur. Benjamin Franklin caught lightening, but he didn’t even attempt to catch thunder. There is a reason for that. Because thunder happens so fast. It’s loud and frightening and existent. And then it’s gone. And everything’s okay again. And then you realize you want it to happen another time. You want the frames of your house to be shaken.
Everyone respects Thunder. People look at him and they just smile. Because he’s smiling. And then when he ran. Gah. When he ran. It was like the world made sense again. Even just watching him run. You knew that if he could find his place in his world, and be so contented with it, you could too. 
And then it happened. Of course, it happened. Life can never be so pre-tensely happy. There has to be a struggle. I’ve read books. I’ve seen the movies. Everything’s great. Then it’s bad. And then it’s great with an echo of what the bad did. But things aren’t just bad. They’re awful. 
Even now, sitting at a computer screen. Staring at the wind toss things around, I don’t know what to say. I can’t find words or emotions. I want to say I’m sad. But I’m not. I want to say I feel pity. But I don’t. I want to say that I found courage because of it. But I didn’t. I want to say that I love more because of it. But I don’t. I. I feel. Nothing. I feel nothing. At all. 
People used to think that we were a thing. Like a couple. But we weren’t. We were never even close to a couple. He was the brother I never had. He was the brother I did have. He was the perfect brother. The one that was the perfect combination of protective and fun. And besides that, he ran. And so did I. And he trained me. And I learned. And life was good. Not perfect. Because if life’s perfect, it’s not life. 

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