Sweat draws the flies. After thirty-seven years, you’d think I’d be used to having hundreds of the damn things buzzing in front of my face. Not a chance. They annoy the hell out of me.

A fast flick of my hand in front of my face does virtually nothing to get them to leave me alone.

Taking a steadying breath, while trying not to draw one of the annoying insects into my mouth, I lean against the fence, staring out into the distance at the greying sky with distinctive tinges of green.

The storm’s been brewing for just fifteen minutes. It’s big and fast, and the hail is likely going to damage the tin roof.

Why the hell did I think it was a good idea for me to come home again?

Sure, I’d returned out west for my dad, Jack Senior, helping him through his sickness as best as I could before I finally laid him to rest next to the giant bottle tree he loved so much. But that was seven months ago, yet I’m still here.

One hundred and thirty kilometres from sort-of civilisation.

To be fair, our closest town has almost as many pubs as I have fingers. While it’s a win, Roma has quietened over the years as the drought’s hit hard.

Most folks ventured out east, chasing the ocean, wanting to cling to the edges of the Queensland shores. And I get it. Hell, when I left town for my apprenticeship, I’d stayed in Brisbane, lucky enough to have an aunt who was willing to put up her eighteen-year-old nephew while I worked my way through my certifications.

A crash of thunder rents the air, loud enough that the cows in the far-right paddock bolt for the fence line.

Yet, I’m here. With this brewing storm that, honestly, I’ve never seen anything quite like before, I’m wondering why I’m still standing here.

 There’s a strange orange and red, similar to that of a sunset. The sky is a kaleidoscope of colour as it washes over the dark red dirt. The sky, a stunning wash of red, orange, and gold, should be beautiful. But that green and the flashes of lightning sets my teeth on edge.

It’s enough to have me dragging in a calming breath, thankfully without pulling a flying insect in with—

It’s weird. I hold my breath, listening intently, realising in the past couple of minutes of watching the fast-approaching storm, all the flies have died off.

With the dropping sun usually comes a chorus of high-pitched buzzing, the song of the cicadas already filling the otherwise quiet space around me by now. But there’s nothing.

The birds have already flown away, out of the path of the storm, and even the herd is eerily silent.

The braying of Geralt and Gertie, secure in the barn, has even cut off.  

This time of day is usually an in-between time of saying goodbye to a long day working my old man’s six-hundred-acre property—or mine, technically, though it still doesn’t feel like it—and taking solace in the peace only the outback can offer.

But then there’s this damn storm. It’s closer than five minutes ago but still sits on the horizon, probably twenty, maybe thirty kilometres away.

And it’s just kind of hovering there.

The full display of incredible colours remains awash in the sky, the lightning strikes becoming more frequent. There’s what should be a growl of thunder, but it’s a low groan echoing across the flat land before me. A tired, almost mournful sound reaches where I stand. It lasts ten long seconds, and by the time it ends, my hairs are standing on end and I’m no longer confident the house and the barn are as secure as I thought they were.

It's odd. The whole thing.

The now posturing storm. The majestic show of lightning. The painful wailing tearing through the air.

The crack of sound rocks the very earth between my booted feet. Instinctively, I drop to the ground. The world shifts. Tilts. And doesn’t stop moving.

On my hands and knees, I cling to the red dirt as ingrained into my skin as the Australian air is embedded in my lungs. I stare out at the expanding storm. The grey continues to mix with the red and gold. The green growing brighter.

What the ever-loving fuck?

It’s like the Aurora Borealis or even the Aurora Australis but with its own palette of colour mirroring the outback landscape.

It’s also impossible. Here. So far away from, well, anywhere.

With the ground still rumbling under my feet, I use the metal gate to steady myself as I haul my arse off the ground. I don’t look away from the mountain of clouds as they stretch and tumble against each other, much like the ocean dumping waves.

While the storm remains the same distance away, it stretches across the horizon, until I have to physically turn to see how far and wide it spreads.

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