by Edd Vick
Rain fell in buckets. Laura watched from the safety of TexBank's reinforced windows, glad she'd stepped in to cash her paycheck.
The smallest buckets were barely larger than thimbles, and bounced high when they hit the pavement. Larger ones, some as big as wine casks, split and splashed water for yards around.
Shop windows shattered, cars were crushed, and people were struck down. Laura gasped as a pedestrian running for the bank was hit by a bucket the size of a coffee cup. The man went down, dazed, then scrambled to his feet and dove for the entrance. An immense vat cannoned into the sidewalk behind him as the security guard yanked him into the air-conditioned bank.
The injured man collapsed into a seat near Laura. He regarded the downpour. "I hear a weatherman's to blame," he said. "Two weeks ago it was 'raining cats and dogs', then last week we had 'pea soup fog'. Now this."
"Those poor people," said Laura. "Flattened by figures of speech."
A sudden wind pulled at the bank's front door. The security guard hauled at it. "What's next?" he said. "Pennies from heaven?"
The window bowed out, and Laura put a palm to it. It was getting colder by the second. She looked up.
Lightning split the sky open.