The Weather in South Wootton

In the garden, I splashed about in mud up to my chest. Half-frozen, lumpy mud. Typical. No other children experienced slush and hail at their summer-holiday-destinations. Closer to the fence, the mud became deeper and soon I disappeared under the surface. The exit must have drifted past me because when I thought I had swum back to the house I found a cave instead. In the cave sat a small gnome-woman with my aunt’s face. She had a loom which she used to weave one black cloud after another. When I asked her which direction my house was, she said:

‘Shh! I’m weaving.’

‘But how am I going to get home from here?’

‘It cannot possibly be my problem whether you can find your way or not,’ her fingers flew back and forth another black cloud appearing under them.

I gave up asking her anything more after that.

It took me hours before I found my way home.

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Tornado

Her ankles had grown wings when she entered the forest, and her hair had a life of its own. Both her hair and the branches whipped her, leaving part of her numb, but she had no way of knowing if they were urging her on or trying to stop her. Regardless, her feet floated an inch above the soaked dead leaves of yesteryear.

Most of their dry brothers danced below her and in front of her, but some flew up around her and nested in her hair.

And the tornado neared from behind.

During a Storm

Round. Perfect. He caressed them and enjoyed their smooth surface.

‘So young,’ he said, and the rain pelted against the glass roof and walls. ‘Don’t worry, my pretty ones, it won’t get in here. I’ll protect you.’

A flash of light and he threw up his arms to protect his identity from any pictures taken. It was followed by a loud rumble and he snickered.

‘They won’t fool me my pretties.’

Then something smashed through the roof and they were showered with clear razor shards. He covered the plant with his body, shielding it from the worst assault. When only ordinary rain fell, he staggered. Giggled. Held up a red hand in front of the tomatoes.

‘Look,’ he fell to his knees, ‘my hands are of your colour.’

Then his face connected with the flagstones.

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