An Impromtu Writing By Brandon Because He Writes Best When He's Tired. And he is.

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The rain heaved and sloshed its way through New York's deathly quiet streets. The winds moaned, and the shoreline shrank from the ocean. Or rather, the ocean grew onto the deserted city as though it had decided to follow the long ago evolutionary footsteps that put animals breathing air. It pushed up higher for a few seconds, than relaxed.

A man in a black suit and deep red tie walked to the bank. It had fought its way up to the nearest street and kept pressing onward- a revolutionary that believed in its cause. He approached it, looked around, and took off his shoes. Another step toward the surface and he moved to where he would have been an inch deep- but as a magnet repels, the water backed away and began to swirl around his feet. He kept walking. The storm began to swirl around him until he was completely surrounded in his bubble of air in the stormy waters.

Above where he was standing, the water churned and began to spin. It slowly, and then quickly rose in velocity to where it began to dent the water and push its way down. Underneath, the man raised his arms, and shouted- his voice lost in the noise of the sea. Eventually, the twister's spiral reached him and air from the surface, or rather the eye of the storm, opened the pocket he had kept himself in. He smiled. It once was said that the Earth would never be flooded again- but who was keeping the promise this time?

The hurricane reached it potential almost a mile from the bay and began to race to the city, bent on destruction, destruction only. The storm was hungry. It pushed it way to the nearest building when it evaporated in a haze. The waters receded. The clouds stopped raining and the wind stopped moaning. A different man, in a brilliant white robe, let down his hands. His work was not done. Other parts of the world were under attack. He left.