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.
Good theory. Wonder if the theory was concoted by the whiskey or the man. Nice descriptions of the brewing storm.
There’s a logic to that bravery somewhere.
Good piece.
Good descriptions here. The logic may not stand up to the test of time, but …
Interesting philosophy, interesting tale.
I enjoyed this.
A real mind twister.
I love the last bit about them canceling each other out! Nice work.
It has a logic that defies convention. Quite different. Excellent work.
Loved the descriptions, brings the scene alive.
Whisky helps with everything, good story.
Loved this prairie noir. Nice as a stand-alone but could work as a longer piece. I want more. Well done!
Like a man being boiled alive…wonderful!
Enjoyed the Phriday Philosopher too.
Dear J Hardy,
Interesting theory. I hope he isn’t caught in the cross winds. ;)
Shalom,
Rochelle
Interesting theory of nullifying the brewing storm. Seems a sip of whisky makes man bold to face problems.