Windchimes hanging from a rusty hook chime a song born of wind and pending storms. Old spoons of silver plate dangle and collide, growing louder as they test the hook, and you remember days of a chime or two on a quiet Sunday morning.
The sky is shades of gray, and a black line on the horizon speeds towards you with no mercy. You're no stranger to storms, and each one becomes a memory filled with fear. The chimes now break the hook, and spoons blow across the porch, scattered here and there, forever forgotten as their melodies go silent.
You face the fear inside as you grab hold of the arms of your chair, your beard blowing backward, and your ball cap ripped off your head, joining other airborne debris in a race to get far from home. You know you should escape and seek shelter somewhere safe, but you're glued to your chair by the fury of its strength, and you realize this is how it ends.
You know what a jet pilot must feel like as he ejects from his aircraft, as a violent blast propels him up and out of his seat. Your chair is shaking violently, but you somehow manage to stay seated as a deadly gust of wind pulls you and the chair into a swirling mass of destruction. You should be dead by now, but you and your chair are as one as you brace yourself for the worst that's surely going to come.
Some may call it a miracle, and others just dumb luck that the chair came to rest on a bale of hay upright and unscathed. As for you, you sat there for a minute before your hands came unglued from the arms of the chair, and you could walk away in search of your home. It was one hell of a ride, you told yourself with a grin on your face. I think I'd like to go again, he said out loud, but not today.
The sky is shades of gray, and a black line on the horizon speeds towards you with no mercy. You're no stranger to storms, and each one becomes a memory filled with fear. The chimes now break the hook, and spoons blow across the porch, scattered here and there, forever forgotten as their melodies go silent.
You face the fear inside as you grab hold of the arms of your chair, your beard blowing backward, and your ball cap ripped off your head, joining other airborne debris in a race to get far from home. You know you should escape and seek shelter somewhere safe, but you're glued to your chair by the fury of its strength, and you realize this is how it ends.
You know what a jet pilot must feel like as he ejects from his aircraft, as a violent blast propels him up and out of his seat. Your chair is shaking violently, but you somehow manage to stay seated as a deadly gust of wind pulls you and the chair into a swirling mass of destruction. You should be dead by now, but you and your chair are as one as you brace yourself for the worst that's surely going to come.
Some may call it a miracle, and others just dumb luck that the chair came to rest on a bale of hay upright and unscathed. As for you, you sat there for a minute before your hands came unglued from the arms of the chair, and you could walk away in search of your home. It was one hell of a ride, you told yourself with a grin on your face. I think I'd like to go again, he said out loud, but not today.
Mike 2026
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