a story of 600 words on
A long journey interrupted by a disaster.
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Waiting for my parents to return from our farm 15 kilometres away, I start to lose hope. The storm was too powerful, out on the streets there were cars blowing over and tumbling down the hill and house roofs lifting off. The storm tricked us; it turned and headed for the village.
The clouds are furious. Wind thrashing the neighbour’s fence punching it into a wreck. The roar of the eerie, outrageous wind, creating damage to the once peaceful village, trees colliding with others sometimes crushing sheds and cars; the wind creating circles of dust whipping up anything in its way.
Little drops of salty water run down my face as I see my home town getting ripped apart. Without warning, the window breaks away from the wall, smashing me and sending me flying across the room.
The next morning I wake up covered in paper and glass, there was an ache in my leg and I look down to see a gash. I collect up a few papers and wipe up the blood.
Now the air is calm and quiet. I try to keep positive. I am perched on my dark, red chair, gazing at the glass window as the cloud’s teardrops skate down it. It’s a depressing, murky day, can’t see any light; no glimmer of the golden sun about to break through the grey clouds, no colourful rainbows glistening in the sky. All I can see is gloomy shapes over the deserted village.
I find a bandage on top of the fridge and try to wrap my leg in it. It doesn’t look right. Mum would know how to do this.
The first people I see are down the street running out of a smashed house with T.V sets. I don’t recognise them. They hop in a car and drive to another house near the corner.
A lady comes out of the house in the other direction, she has a baby in her arms and she is yelling someone’s name. She is calling out for the dear old man who used to water our garden. I look at his house. Half the house is caved in. Still clutching the child and calling the man’s name she tries to move the first piece of wood but it is jammed. She stumbles over the planks, making her way to the damaged house. As she gets half way over the pile she cautiously lowers herself onto a plank to calm her crying baby. But the baby is too restless; she turns and makes her way back to the cracked pavement.
The phone. The phone. Mum, Dad; I can call for help.
I try the phone; I hear static like the wind is still blowing somewhere.