Lighting only strikes once, right?

A modern-day Benjamin Franklin discovers that Franklin left out essential experiences.

Lighting only strikes once, right?

          Kiria Brandonberg had two passions in life: Benjamin Franklin's collected works and the art of regret. Well, the latter was more of an unintended side effect. On her parents' isolated farm nestled in the Rockies, where the nearest coffee shop was a 45-minute snowmobile ride away, boredom was a fickle companion. And boredom, as Kiria had learned, was a surefire invitation to impulsiveness.

          "It's simple, Dad! Lemons, copper, zinc--voil/i>--free energy!" Kiria declared, holding up a citrus-scented contraption of nails, wires, and desperation. Her father, a man whose patience had been whittled down to a splinter by decades of farming and Kiria's existence, squinted at the quivering lemon perched atop a hay bale.

          "And this... powers what, exactly?" he asked, eyeing the wire she'd taped to the barn's electric fence.

          "Your coffee machine! I'll brew you a cup so strong it could wake a grizzly!"

          Regretfully, the coffee machine did not wake a grizzly. It woke the entire farm, as a spark leapt from Kiria's lemon battery, igniting a plume of smoke that smelled suspiciously of burnt lemons and dread. The resulting short circuit left the farmhouse in darkness... and the family cow, Bessie, inexplicably moonwalking in a panic around the pasture.

          "See?" Kiria said later, flicking a charred nail into the dirt. "Ben Franklin once said, 'Energy is the last thing to be lost by division.' Which I interpret as: more lemons!"

          Weeks later, Kiria was back at it. This time, determined to harness the farm's tractor as a "Tesla coil." Her plan? To generate enough static electricity to power the barn lights. Her execution? To jury-rig the tractor's battery with a toaster, a hair dryer, and a roll of aluminum foil.

          "I'm doing science," she informed her mother, who was halfway through unplugging the microwave.

          "Your science is why we had a blue-tongued cow last week," her mother replied, crossing her arms.

          Kiria's "Tesla coil" peaked at 1:17 a.m., when a thunderous POP echoed through the Rockies. The barn lights flickered to life--just as the tractor, now semi-electrified, shuddered to life. It inched forward, tugging a chain of appliances behind it like a mad inventor's train. The contraption halted only when the tractor's bumper grazed the electric fence--again--summoning Bessie into another episode of alarmed moonwalks.

          Kiria awoke the next morning on the floor of the barn, her hair crackling with static. "Success!" she whispered, before sneezing and setting fire to a bale of hay.

          Lightning never struck the same girl twice, right? Kiria wasn't sure where that myth originated. Benjamin Franklin didn't mention it in his papers, and she'd read every work; however, she wasn't about to let a little thing like probability stop her.

          On a sweltering July afternoon, with storm clouds churning like overripe thunderberries, Kiria declared Project Franklin's Final Experiment: Capturing Lightning. Her setup was inspired, she insisted, by Franklin's kite experiment. Her materials? A metal ladder, a spool of copper wire, a metal bucket (for "grounding"), and a kite fashioned from a trash bag, duct tape, and her little sister's forgotten birthday card.

          "Kiria! Put that ladder down!" her father bellowed from the porch, as she climbed into the storm.

          "But Dad! If we can harness a single bolt, we'll have free electricity for the entire farm!"

          The first raindrop hit her cheek as she released the kite. The string zinged, the trash-bag kite catching a gust. Kiria grinned, her eyes alight with the fire of a thousand benighted inventors. Then the sky split.

          CRACK.

          Lightning. Right. Between. The. Eyes.

          Kiria Btandonberg knew she was a dead woman. She had time for one thought--Ben Franklin was clearly an idiot--before everything went black.

          She awoke... unharmed.

          "Huh," Kiria said, sitting up in the soaked grass. Her hair stood straight up, every strand defying gravity like a bottle-brush squirrel. She touched it. It crackled.

          Her father's voice boomed: "Are you trying to get yourself killed?!"

          Kiria turned. Her parents stood at the barn, her mother clutching a shovel, her father gripping the tractor keys like a weapon. Behind them, Bessie stared, her moonwalk evolving into a slow, ominously rhythmic dance.           "I survived!" Kiria cried, leaping to her feet. "I survived, Dad! This is huge!"

          It's huge{/font," her father muttered, gesturing to the scorched earth, "because you've ruined the Wi-Fi."

          But Kiria wasn't listening. She cupped her hands around her mouth. "Bessie! Over here!"

          The cow ambled closer.

          Kiria snapped her fingers. A tiny spark leapt from them--zaps--and Bessie's tail began to twitch. Within seconds, she was moonwalking again... but this time, in time with a nearby flock of startled chickens.

          Kiria's eyes glittered. "Ben Franklin didn't mention telekinetic poultry in his notes. This is revolutionary."

          As her parents groaned in unison, Kiria Brandonberg--hair crackling, notebook in hand--set off toward the storm clouds on the horizon, her next experiment already forming.

          After all, lightning struck once. And who was to say it wouldn't strike... again?

Word Count: 829
Prompt: A girl is struck by lightning, yet wakes up perfectly fine.