Month: September 2016

My entry for the Masterpiece in a Day contest this year. I didn’t win this tine, but two people from my writer’s group did, including my lovely wife, so that was pretty awesome.

I also made my peace with Thor. I’ve held a grudge against the lummox for a long time now (that’s another story). Writing this has helped me understand him a little better.

Hope you enjoy.

Storm
Chaser

Ever
since I turned forty I’ve suffered what I call Henderson’s Disease. The
symptoms include a deep sense of having missed out on something in life, and a
voice in your head that says, “I want. I want. I want.”

I thought I wanted to
be a writer. But I’m never going to be as good as Saul Bellow, so what’s the
point?

But every morning I
would get up. Usually after my wife had already gone to work. Have a little
breakfast. Walk the two miles to downtown. Stroll past all the closed up shops
on Main St. And grab myself a cheap cup of coffee and a lottery ticket at the
gas station. My voice would croak out, “thank you,” to the pregnant
girl working behind the counter, and I would realize those were the first words
I’d spoken since I said. “I love you,” to my wife the night before.

Unlike all the others
in this dying town, I saw my unemployment as an opportunity. Time to write.

I’d walk back and let
my head fill up with ideas. Psyching myself up for the confrontation. Like a
gunslinger at high noon caressing the handle of his gun, I would brush my fingers
lightly against the keyboard. As the blank screen and I faced off, I could feel
tumbleweeds blowing past behind my chair. The screen always won. Based on the
virtue of me never firing a shot.

Yesterday, I stopped
and sipped my coffee in front of the closed up travel agency, wondering what
happened to Chloe, who used to run the place. She got out. Maybe to one of
those exotic destinations she used to sell to others.

While staring at a
sun-faded poster telling me to “See Finland” a shadow fell across the window.
Standing behind me a huge guy, dressed like a lumberjack, beard and all, stared
at the same poster with a wistful look in his eye.

A screeching alarm
coming from his phone broke the silence. He whipped it out and grinned at the
screen, his eyes lighting up. Then he looked over at me and said, “Wanna see
something cool?”

I shrugged and he took
off with a massive lumbering stride. Running to catch up with him, we jumped
into an old, beat up, pickup truck. His phone screeched again, but he ignored
it.

Before I could buckle
we were hurdling out of town faster than sanity allowed. Regret strangled me as
he didn’t even watch the road, but kept his eyes on the storm overhead. My
thoughts raced like the clouds. Why the
fuck did I just do that? Why did I get in a vehicle with a total stranger? What
the fuck is wrong with me? Am I that desperate?

In an attempt to
normalize the situation, I asked. “What’s your name?”

“Donar. You can call
me Don.” He didn’t stop watching the sky.

More silence, then the
obvious follow up. “What do you do?”

I thought he wasn’t
going to answer. Then he took his eyes off the storm for the first time and
looked straight at me, grinning. “I’m a storm chaser.”

Regret tightened its
grip choking off my reply. Looking around the cab, I saw no cameras or other
equipment, which seemed strange.

We reached the highway
and he slid into the turn, right past the “Wrong Way” sign that wobbled in the
wind from the oncoming storm.

“Oh God! Shit! Fuck!
Stop!” I screamed.

He sped up, slaloming
the thankfully few oncoming cars as the sound of their horns dopplered past.

That’s when I saw it.
The black finger of God, cutting across the land and leaving behind a trail
like Sherman’s march to the sea. Trees, shingles, and other wreckage swirled
around its base. Dancers around a demonic maypole. The noise filled the space
like a palpable thing. A roar that vibrated my teeth and eyeballs.

In the sheer terror I
had forgotten my companion, until he nudged me on the arm. I turned to him and
he looked back at me. Lighting danced in his eyes, or was it a reflection of
the storm all around us?

“What do you want?”
His voice somehow boomed through the noise, splitting the air like thunder.

“I… I…”

The air changed. The
truck became a cocoon, suddenly safe from the chaos around us. He turned his
gaze straight ahead, and spoke at the impending doom. He didn’t need to yell in
the strange silence. “Best be like the weather. It’s always changing.”

The truck rocked,
trying to take off. The noise came crashing back down. His smile widened. He
looked back at me one more time and yelled, “This is where I get off.”

My mind tried to
decipher the words. They seemed a foreign language. Before I could figure it
out, he opened the door and the wind knocked me back as the noise threatened to
rupture my ears.

I could only open my
eyes again after the door closed. I saw, a false memory I’m sure, him spiraling
up the funnel, carried up by the wind, laughing.

The truck rocked
again. My vision tunneled as it swerved left, went straight over the ditch,
tilted, and kept flying.

Then black.

The next thing I
remember are the soft glow and gentle hum of a hospital room. It must have been
late. The lights were off and my wife sat slumped in a chair beside my bed.

My hand floated up
with a will of its own. She shifted in her chair, then gasped. Springing to her
feet, she gently grasped my hand. Sobbing and tears were all she could manage.

My voice croaked out.

“I want to go home.”