Flashes of Inspiration

Brewing

The weirding weather was oppressive across the whole farm, and everything felt it. The horses in the barn kicked at their stalls. Cattle lowed restlessly into the stale air, and the ranch dogs that worked together every day snapped and snarled at each other. Standing on the front porch staring at the slow, brown-green sky, Frank easily tuned out the dim sound of the TV inside.

There was a metallic, alkali smell in the air. Like a desert with a migraine would smell, he thought distractedly. The clouds lumbered slowly through the humid air, some behemoth with padded feet walking across the dirty-cotton sky. Frank watched a buzzard swoop, fly up again, then arrow to the ground, auguring into the scrubby dirt and breaking its neck. It let out one awkward squawk, then laid dead. Today's even got the buzzards goin' bugshit...

Frank sniffed the wind, no longer interested in the animals' antics. It was finally relatively quiet.

"I don't care if you stay here or not, just leave me alone, damn you! Just—GIT!" Delores had been furious and looking for a fight, for no other reason except that "the weather was on her." She got cranky and aggravated during even light thunderstorms. The weather's on me, Frank, I'm sorry, she would say after snapping at him or slamming a door in frustration. But the way she'd been this morning—!

Frank won this morning's argument then wandered out to the porch to peer out across the queer arid plains. He heard a snatch of commentary from the TV.

"There's a storm coming," the weatherman said.

Frank wiped the blood and hair off the butt of his rifle and told the gathering sky: "Oh...the storm has just begun!"

He smiled. Maybe it's a good day to visit some neighbors.

(Word Count: 300)