During the Storm and After

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The windmill howled like a man being boiled alive, blades turning fast as an airplane propeller, dry  gears gnashing as the  fan-tail whipped  against the fresh black gale. A moan of the tornado sirens in town started up, fought the wind to drift across the fields to my porch where I sat in my cane-back chair leaned against the shake shingles.

I took a pull of whiskey and thought about death in general tornadoes in particular. I wasn’t afraid of either in those days, my reason being that they stood on the opposite ends of predictability and thus cancelled each other out.

 

13 thoughts on “During the Storm and After

  1. Interesting theory of nullifying the brewing storm. Seems a sip of whisky makes man bold to face problems.

Don't just stand there.