The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #12

storm

The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #12

One Image!

One Prompt!

One Emotion!

200 Words

A violent storm at the end of the road

A longing inspired by beauty, that you thought you’d overcome

Musical notes

Please add your story in the comments below.

 

14 thoughts on “The Iron Writer Weekend Quickie #12

  1. The radio played in the background as his partner yapped on about how he should do more about the house and fix the terrace so she could hold her afternoon social gatherings with the local bridge club and…he recognised the musical notes in the air, such beauty he had long forgotten. They swirled in his mind and brought back a time when his life had some meaning, a longing for beauty, for life, a longing for happiness and love. Mozart Symphony No. 4 in D Major. How had he remembered that?
    “Are you listeing to me, Winston?”
    “Yes, dear.”
    He tried to concentrate a little more on driving down this forever-ending road towards her relatives’ house, but the music enveloped his mind once more and he lost all sense of reality, lost in the beauty of a time he wished back.
    “Hey, Winston, Winston!”
    “What?”
    His partner’s shout shook him and he awoke from his reminiscing. He hadn’t noticed the sky turning black, the wind buffeting the car. He was driving right into a storm, and not just any storm, the largest he’d seen for a while.
    Something about it was comforting, warm, beautiful…
    “Winston!”
    He put the radio up.

  2. “It isn’t so much creepy as it is scary,” I said.

    Yes, I was talking about the storm clouds outside the bus’ front window, but in truth my mind was on Bella.

    ***

    It started as a typical after-show party. We shook a bunch of hands, posed for a million pictures, drank our fair share of booze, and… well you know.

    Just when I thought my head would explode if I had to tell one more industry weasel how happy it made me that, “this music is the greatest thing ever!” I looked over and saw beautiful fading memory sitting alone on a sofa.

    She smiled warmly and invited me onto the empty cushion.
    “I’m going to steal your heart,” she purred.

    “Sweetie, you’ve been saying that forever.”

    “Oh, but I’m deadly serious, darling,” she said opening her clutch just wide enough to reveal a shiny silver dagger.

    Her eyes held mine without a hint of irony. She was utterly serious.

    Freaky Mike walked over and said, “Saul wants us on the bus. Weather’s getting bad out there.”

    ***

    “Should we pull over?” the driver asked.

    “No way,” I said. “You just go like the Devil herself is chasing us.”

  3. A View from the Stage

    The storm lay ahead, raining the musical scale. As usual, it was the same old battle. If the mix wasn’t proper, then people would stop dancing, and leave my dance floor. Of course, nobody expects sweat to drip from the ceiling. But we’ll call that the musical scale, since electrons flow out from the speakers and pass through their bodies, creating such ickiness.

    It makes me glad I’m the dj.

    With this next sonic road trip, the crowd will be whipped up into a storm, this dance floor has never seen before! With as packed as it is, they might drowned in their own movements. But, that’s okay, as long as they sway to this mix. From one record to the next, the magnetic propulsion of interlocked rhythms pushes the bass kick – extra thick.

    Arms moving in time to the highs, as mids shake down thighs; feet jumping to the bass line: thumping.

    Kill both the highs and lows, making the record sound like a telephone, while the sounds breakdown slowly. Then buildup, repetitively; one, two, three, four, and “Boom!” goes the sonic lightning!

    Laser lights flashing; dancers dancing – until I hit the wrong switch.

    Psych! Back in the mix….

  4. Glen Coe. A destination from time, when our children were small. Holidays spent snuggled down in the Glen. One year, the heavens opened. Rain poured down. Clachaig Inn let us use their car park. Higher ground. Didn’t stop us coming back. Year after year. We accepted weather could be brilliant sunshine or mist that fell heavy and wetting.

    Our family have grown. They take holidays in other places. We do too.

    One year, on a whim, we bought old VW Camper. Another whim, Glen Coe, Friday night. Old times sake. Loch Lomond to Crianlarich, Bridge of Orchy and onto Rannoch Moor.

    Musical notes of gentle rain became thunderous overture. The wind tried to throw us off the road to swiftly sink under brackish bog. My husband wrestled with the wheel as if Auld Hornie himself, was trying to take it from him. A82. Main road. I sat and prayed nothing would come the other way, as we were pushed from verge to verge. No barrier. Snow poles catch our headlights then vanish. All credit to my man for seeing us through to Kings House. Where the mountains crowd and the wind can drop. The rain eased down the glen to the campsite at Invercoe.

    A good weekend we had, thereafter. But never again have we acted on a whim.

  5. The Rain Dancer

    It was one of them big old fangled “supa storm cells,” Jeb calls ‘em.

    “I don’t done care whatcha calls ‘em,” I says to Jeb that day, the darn knowitall. “Imma dance’n in that darn rain whether or not I’s gets struck down by lightning from the good old Lord’s hand himself!”

    So’s then Jeb turns to me with a shake of his silver hair, (not that my bit is any darker than his,) and he just spits into the dirt, and says nothing. So’s I punched him in his shoulder, I did! He flinched, like he always does, ‘cause Imma just so quick and unpredictable, I am!

    Anyways, where was I? Ah, yes’m, that supa storm was a calling me like the musical notes of a violin; it was. But that darn thing just kept on going down that there road. Yessir, it just passed us by like one of them there locomotives plowing down the clickity-clackity tracks.

    Bah! Imma blame old Jeb. He done hexed us. I don’t get no rain dancing, and his crops don’t get no rain water’n. Tis a darn shame, for itsa hot day. Please, rain, come back this way, today; tonight; right now!

  6. Priscilla stopped. Tramping alone in the hills of New Zealand, she shouldn’t be able to hear ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’. Sentimental rubbish, of course, but she couldn’t deny its pull.

    She adored New Zealand; she loved its beauty, its pleasant summer temperatures and its friendliness to trampers, and best of all, no family.
    Priscilla needed this time out. Needed the hills and unspoiled nature. Needed to be far away. She had barely survived a freak storm while travelling after Thanksgiving in the Canadian prairies – she still shivered when she recalled the circumstances – the unending road, the storm clouds gathering, suffering from too much food, advice and noisy family bonhomie … and impatience. The blizzard hit and before she knew it, her car had rolled. Hateful Canadian weather.

    There it was again, clear musical notes. She walked on, the sound becoming more distinct. As she left the forest, far vistas of blue sea stretched beyond the trampers’ hut, her destination, where a young man sat playing a sweet-sounding wooden recorder.

    ‘Reminds me of home,’ he said in a Canadian accent. ‘You know – Christmas, snow, family.’

    Priscilla smiled. Yes. This was a healing place. For the first time, she missed it too.

  7. I wasn’t in any danger. The storm was crossing my path many many miles away, but it was a beaut; massive. I’d never seen anything like it. I pulled over to watch it ravage it’s way across Osage county. Oh there’d be hell to pay in the aftermath, and I’d be going in to sort through it, but for the moment the only thing to do was wait.

    That’s when our song came on the radio. I hadn’t heard this song for five years. My mind was flooded with the memories of … us. I’d like to say I remembered all the good times we had while we were together, but I thought about your temper, our fights, and the divorce.

    Looking up at the storm I saw how you two had a lot in common; all around the outside was a whirlwind of rage, but I know that in the middle; in your heart was a real person; capable of love and kindness. That’s the part of you I desired to hold onto and cherish. I’ve been there. I’ve touched it. I miss it.

    Ever so slowly, the storm passed, and went on it’s way. Starting the engine, I drove forward. Those people will need help picking up the pieces of their lives.

  8. My son sat in his high chair at the table quietly making a mess of his dinner. We recently let the little guy start learning to feed himself. He caught on fairly well, but often could not resist the urge to play with his food.

    His little fist held the orange baby fork as he scooped up his mashed potatoes and slapped them into a pile in the middle of his plate crafting a pillar or a tower. It was an uncanny parallel of a scene written by Steven Spielberg.

    Smirking, I whistled a haunting little tune of five notes, “Re Mi Do Do So.”

    My mind conjured images of Devil’s Tower standing alone in the Wyoming frontier with storms looming on the horizon. A long, lonely road stretched off into the distance towards the storm.

    As a youth, I had longed to cut ties to civilization and go off the grid somewhere like that. I wanted to drive headlong into those storms and come out feeling alive and unstoppable. I craved adventure.

    Looking again at my son again I realized I had not given up on adventure. He was a different kind adventure, one I loved every minute of.

  9. My rich uncle died.

    I sat in the sanctuary as the “pastor with two heads” spoke of life and the hereafter.

    The lady pastor spoke with a rhythm and tenor I expect, the male pastor was smarmy and overplayed.

    I fell into a daydream about my uncles house. Enormous yet flat. Ish… flat-ish. The bedroom level was connected to the den level by a small flight of stairs, the den fell to the living room, the living room falls to the dining room, the kitchen connects to the basement apartment.

    I’ve thought of that house very often.

    And my third cousin whom I’ve never met eulogized my uncle saying, “You decide who you are every day,” and a host of cousins whom I’ve never met as well cried into their handkerchiefs.

    Oh my goodness the pipe organ. “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” has three stanzas, and with each the organist added a level of bass, each deeper than the last, falling by fifths, reaching into my chest and lifting my soul to the rafters, just in front of the stunning stained glass windows that say, “To the glory of God, His Son the Savior, and Heathcliff Garfield” or some such donor.

  10. Music to My Ears
    Danielle Lee Zwissler
    I was on my way home when the storm started looking deadly. I’d been at work all day, and most of the night when the alerts came on. My boss told me to get out, and I listened to him. He was right, it didn’t look good at all.
    I started to freak out a bit when the clouds appeared to be forming funnels. Big drops of rain cascaded down my windshield and made my wipers work overtime. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I couldn’t concentrate. I was afraid that this was it, this was the moment when I would die.
    I turned on the radio, put on some classical, and tried to find my “happy place”.
    I took a deep breath, and listened as the soft sounds of ivory being tickled lingered in my subconscious. It was something that I thought I had gotten over long ago, my love for piano. Yet it hadn’t gone away, and the sound of it calmed my nerves, and hardened my resolve. I continued my trek, and prayed that the clouds would part and the sun would shine, and I would make it home, and continue my childhood dream of taking piano lessons.

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