Departed trail & Bitter trials.

English 51A

“Come on we’re missing the wind, if you want to piss and cry for mommy do it on your own time. Not mine,” shouted to the greenhorn assistant of a real storm chaser who saw his many, many, shares of things brought about from an angry God. “It’s a hurricane, it’s air currents are clocking at 100 mile an hour, that’s enough to send us through a wall.” said green horn. “Yes the hard way and half way through it, and if you want to be a smart ass do it right. Look at the monitors, that’s a 150 pound bastard of a hurricane” said by the real storm chaser. “You’re supposed to be a meteorologist, learn how to read a wind gauge.”

The two men held tight to the interior of the car, green horn held to the dashboard and the arm bar on the passenger door; storm chaser held to the leather wrinkles of the driver’s wheel cover while controlling the weather van. The engine revs up a hot snare as it motors to the hurricane that is leaving the edges of a valley. People still chase the hurricane, they are still leering at the edge of their seat, still trying to see what a force of nature is like from; and these two men are not special. Who or what can be more important than the animal that comes down like it broke off the lease and left to ripp havoc from God’s side.

The wind is a towering tour of inescapable suction, roaring, and an uplifting pressure of a monster. Anything the size of  a pebble fire off in the air like bullets bending to a greater gravity than the projection of a gun’s barrel. The woorshing air from afar is good because your safe, when it hallows then you are closer to danger, and when you can’t even hear your voice that means your already about to be in the harvest of: ripped roofing’s form country homes, weather vanes that weren’t bolted down with 5inch nails or screws, maybe some trees yanked out the ground like bushes, and uprooted statues from the colonial days that were unfortunately decommissioned by the winds of God. Also, just maybe a liter box with the poop inside. I guess no one has to clean it anymore.

“Why do you do this,”Green horn called out in freighting curiosity because he wanted to know before he died. “I don’t know maybe it’s: the adrenaline I’m after, the feathers to my cap, the Apalachee blood that wants it, or just because it’s the only real thing to do in Florida besides Disney world, and my old lady?” Storm chaser finished his words with a laugh to Florida and his old lady. Grining, Storm Chaser pressed hard on the gas if it was possible to keep up with the departing winding. “I’ll catch up to that bastard, mark my words.” 

It may have a calmness to its character but it’s a hallowed rant of surrounding deviant behavior. What can it be when it likes to take away the air from your lungs; like a creeping force of destruction in some eerie form. It touches waters and makes maelstroms that swallow boats, men and fish before spitting them out like a coughed up meal. From the outside it looks to be some sea titian or even the god Poseidon walking the ocean, to then touch land. Mere mortals lock themselves up; but the storm chaser waits for the chance to touch the windy side of the beast; it’s as if running beside a horse to touch its manne while it runs.

But who can keep up with a horse at full gallop; it’s a simple stroll for them and an impossible feat for men trying to gain feathers for a coo stick or reputation. Some buildings are seemingly built to be resistant; but when you come out and bear witness the tattered remains of this left behind existence, can you say that you survived a hurricane? It’s just another thing enjoyed by the  monster of a thing that seems to be grinning as it strolls around triumphant. The hurricane does not care about what things are in its twisting hands, nor does it care whether these things survive. What it cares about is the destruction left in its wake; cows landing miles away from pastures, matter infused with matter like all things were meant to be this way, and of course a van that was gobbled up at the end of a valley just before heading from Florida right to Texas, I guess it’s better than flying coach.

“I told you I’ll catch up,”Storm chaser told Greenhorn before the kid passed out.