The exercise:
Write about: a withering wind.
Went for our Sunday hike this afternoon, despite the nasty wind (which is still blowing). Worth it, obviously, but definitely cut things short.
We made up for it with tea and hot chocolate and family art time at the dinner table after we got home.
4 comments:
That sounds like a nice day out, though I appreciate that the weather wasn't quite what you'd hoped for. But in January I'd say it's also that surprising :)
I'm at home today while tradesmen turn up to fix things, so we have a slight detour from the usual story :)
A withering wind
The old man got up slowly. He had been kneelling for nearly an hour on the cold, flat concrete at the rear of the warehouse. It was Sunday and the lorries that, every other day of the week, came in and out to collect their loads and escort to the ends of the country, were conspicuous by their absence. Only one of the shuttered bays was open and he made his way painfully to the gaping darkness, pain shooting up his legs alternately as he walked. Very gradually he felt the blood start to circulate again and his breathing became a little easier as the pain subsided. Pins and needles tingled in his ankles and feet and then faded, leaving behind just the bone-chilling cold from the concrete.
"That's a chill wind," said a voice from inside the darkness. The old man didn't recognise it and it had an odd solemnity to it, like the priest at a funeral or at some rite so important that no-one made excuses not to attend.
"You're not supposed to be here!" he said. "This is private property."
"I have permission," said the voice.
"Not to be here!"
"To be everywhere, in fact."
The old man reached the shutter-way where the light now penetrated into the warehouse and peered around. For a moment he wasn't sure he could see anyone, and then it seemed like someone stepped forward out of the background and became present. They looked like a junior accountant: a grey suit that seemed to hang a little loosely, a tie inexpertly tied but hanging straight down, short dark hair and very, very pale skin. So pale that it was practically luminous and the old man wondered how he could have missed someone who looked like that when he first looked in.
"Don't cheek me," said the old man. "You young people today don't have enough respect for your elders, that's your problem."
"Fam," said another voice from behind him. The old man turned, more slowly than he would have liked, and felt his heart start pounding in his chest. One intruder he might handle, but two of them spelled trouble. Behind him was a scarecrow of a person: thin to the point of being skin stretched over bone wearing clothing so washed-out and logoless that it could have been a sheet just tucked into itself in a few places. "Fam, who's the elder here? QTNA, amirite?"
"Respect is earned, not donated," said a third voice and the old man's hand slipped inside his own jacket, clutching his chest. His heart was thumping so hard now that it felt like it was going to burst through his own skin and bone and stage an escape. "Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?"
The old man felt strong, warm hands take his shoulders and press down and somehow there was a chair beneath him which he was grateful for. He took a deep, shuddery breath and held it for three seconds, then looked around.
The accountant, and the old man was growing increasingly sure that that was who he was -- it would be just like the Internal Revenue Services to turn up on a Sunday when there was only a caretaker around -- had a very ill-looking young man next to him. The man was practically green and with a sudden shock of recognition the old man realised he must be badly hungover. The scarecrow was walking in now but he looked so fragile that the old man thought that even he could take him in a fight. Which just left... he turned his head and found that the person who'd found him a chair and sat him down looked like Thor after an intense workout. All thoughts of protest died away.
"What do you want?" he said. The wind blew in through the shutter-way, withering what was left of his resolve.
"The list is endless, Fam," said the scarecrow. "War here wants a holiday, Pest over there is looking for Hilda, I would kill for a burger or six and the Boss--"
"Hilda?"
"Our dog. She's around here somewhere. Probably setting fire to some rats or something."
The old man tried to get up at the mention of fire but War's hands on his shoulders were immovable.
"The Boss is here for you," finished Famine.
"What?"
Death's nerf-gun appeared in his hand like a magic trick and the soft foam bullet bounced off the old man's forehead.
Greg - argh, sorry about the filter nabbing you again. Honestly no idea why it dislikes you so randomly. Might be that thing you said about its mother though...
Always, always appreciate a visit from this crew. I'm curious as to why this particular old man required the full set of them to show up though. Not that I'm complaining, obviously, just curious.
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