Eerie, Indiana fanfiction: Squall
Written for Day 1 of 31_days October challenge. The prompt was "ride the wild wind"
Old Bob was angry. In and of itself, that wasn’t unusual. Big storms have big egos, and with big egos came a corresponding sensitivity to slights, both accidental and deliberate. But this... this was simply intolerable. He passed over First Eerie Methodist, taking a petulant swipe at the squat ugly building as he went. The low, single-story structure, smugly constructed of sturdy materials and utilitarian lines, didn’t so much as rattle it’s window panes in fear. Old Bob seethed with resentment.
Weatherman Wally was on his back porch, working on a rough outline for the following day’s broadcast. He was struggling to find a third euphemism for “rain of frogs” when Old Bob began gouging deep furrows in the cornfields behind his house. He sighed, set down his composition book, and walked into the eye of the storm.
Surrounded by a swirling vortex of airborne debris, the green light of flying ice-crystals reflecting off his glasses, Wally looked skywards and pitched his voice to be heard above the howl of the wind.
“What?” he snapped.
Old Bob screamed his displeasure. A sudden drop in air pressure flattened a recently erected housing estate, built over what had once been a pick-your-own strawberry farm before an ill-considered soft fruit uprising resulted in the Eerie City Council exercising eminent domain over the land.
“Tornado Day is six months away,” said Wally. “Nobody’s taking anything away from you. You don’t have a monopoly on meteorological weirdness in this town.”
The clock tower over City Hall buckled as a hail of uprooted saplings slammed into it at sixty miles an hour. The great beast’s wail was drowned out by the noise of the squall, but Wally’s nose began to drip blood none-the-less.
“Amphibious precipitation is newsworthy,” he insisted, voice slightly muffled behind a wad of rapidly-darkening tissues. “You can’t show up at my backdoor having a meltdown over every up and coming weather event in the state.”
Wally’s covered porch exploded in a shower of matt-white splinters.
“Hey!” said Wally. “My grandfather built that. I spent all summer sanding and repainting it. Don’t be a jerk!”
A herd of cattle, grazing on a nearby hillside, found themselves carried aloft. Wally narrowly avoided a flailing hoof to the head, but a thrashing tail knocked his glasses from his face. He reached for them, but a capricious passing breeze snatched them out of his reach and hurled them against the garage door with such force that the lenses burst from their frames.
Wally ground his teeth.
“Fine,” he said. “If that’s how you want to play it, consider your social media accounts cancelled.”
The wind dropped. Wally continued, inexorable as the tides.
“The Tornado Day Twitter feed? Dead. Your Tumblr account? Deleted. Facebook? Gone. Come next May, you’ll be working on word of mouth and leaflets displayed in the windows of local businesses. No more “like and share for a free t-shirt”. No more trending Miss Tornado Day hashtag. Hope you like living in the 1990s.” He paused. “Oh, and the next time you find yourself trapped at the bottom of Lake Eerie, you can forget about sending little zephyrs tapping on my window, because you just broke them, and also because fuck you.”
The great blow seemed to hesitate. The air was thick with dust stirred up by the gale and Wally coughed, choking on the dirt cloud and his own rage.
“You want to throw a tantrum over some little cloudburst flexing it’s muscles? You want to attack a town that’s honoured you every year for over a century? You want to pick a fight with a weatherman?” He held a protective hand in front of his mouth and took a deep breath. “You go right ahead. This little farming community existed when you were a ripple in the earth’s atmosphere, and we’ll be here long after you blow yourself out.”
Wally wiped a layer of grey-brown grit from his face and turned his back on the still, silent landscape. The porch, which had survived three generations of meteorologists-in-training practising their craft on it’s warped wooden boards, lay in ruins. He had to step over the wreckage and pull himself up through the raised doorway in order to enter his small house, but the backdoor slammed with a satisfying finality when he closed it behind him.
Tomorrow, he would contact Eerie Recycling and see if they could make some kind of particle board from the splintered fretwork and shattered railings. There was enough of his family’s history caught up in the warp and weft of those broken planks to make it worth saving. Insulating the garage against an Indiana winter might not result in the same increased property values as a hand-carved wrap-around porch with matching lawn furniture, but it could still be useful.
Outside, the wind began a tentative knocking against the shingled walls. Wally ignored it.
The Weather Series
Wally by froodle, in which a certain weatherman doesn't lose his temper, but is sorely tried
Vacation by froodle, in which Weatherman Wally visits a tropical paradise without ever leaving Eerie city limits
Sick Day by froodle, in which Weatherman Wally does not go to work
The Storm by froodle, in which Mayor Chisel has a very specific job for Eerie's resident weatherman
Setting the Scene by froodle, in which Wally prepares for Christmas
Holidays are Coming by froodle, in which something else prepares for Christmas
Garden by froodle, in which Wally eats ice-cream
Strawberry by froodle, in which there is unauthorised hubbub in Eerie
Stormfront by froodle, in which Wally takes a hands-on approach to firefighting.
Sisters by froodle, in which we visit Normal, Illinois
Still by froodle, in which we find out there are far worse things than Old Bob
Midsummer by froodle, in which the Eerie Express returns, right on schedule
Castle by froodle, in which there is unexpected architecture in Eerie
Waiting In by froodle, in which there is an ice-storm and a handyman does not arrive
Old Bob was angry. In and of itself, that wasn’t unusual. Big storms have big egos, and with big egos came a corresponding sensitivity to slights, both accidental and deliberate. But this... this was simply intolerable. He passed over First Eerie Methodist, taking a petulant swipe at the squat ugly building as he went. The low, single-story structure, smugly constructed of sturdy materials and utilitarian lines, didn’t so much as rattle it’s window panes in fear. Old Bob seethed with resentment.
Weatherman Wally was on his back porch, working on a rough outline for the following day’s broadcast. He was struggling to find a third euphemism for “rain of frogs” when Old Bob began gouging deep furrows in the cornfields behind his house. He sighed, set down his composition book, and walked into the eye of the storm.
Surrounded by a swirling vortex of airborne debris, the green light of flying ice-crystals reflecting off his glasses, Wally looked skywards and pitched his voice to be heard above the howl of the wind.
“What?” he snapped.
Old Bob screamed his displeasure. A sudden drop in air pressure flattened a recently erected housing estate, built over what had once been a pick-your-own strawberry farm before an ill-considered soft fruit uprising resulted in the Eerie City Council exercising eminent domain over the land.
“Tornado Day is six months away,” said Wally. “Nobody’s taking anything away from you. You don’t have a monopoly on meteorological weirdness in this town.”
The clock tower over City Hall buckled as a hail of uprooted saplings slammed into it at sixty miles an hour. The great beast’s wail was drowned out by the noise of the squall, but Wally’s nose began to drip blood none-the-less.
“Amphibious precipitation is newsworthy,” he insisted, voice slightly muffled behind a wad of rapidly-darkening tissues. “You can’t show up at my backdoor having a meltdown over every up and coming weather event in the state.”
Wally’s covered porch exploded in a shower of matt-white splinters.
“Hey!” said Wally. “My grandfather built that. I spent all summer sanding and repainting it. Don’t be a jerk!”
A herd of cattle, grazing on a nearby hillside, found themselves carried aloft. Wally narrowly avoided a flailing hoof to the head, but a thrashing tail knocked his glasses from his face. He reached for them, but a capricious passing breeze snatched them out of his reach and hurled them against the garage door with such force that the lenses burst from their frames.
Wally ground his teeth.
“Fine,” he said. “If that’s how you want to play it, consider your social media accounts cancelled.”
The wind dropped. Wally continued, inexorable as the tides.
“The Tornado Day Twitter feed? Dead. Your Tumblr account? Deleted. Facebook? Gone. Come next May, you’ll be working on word of mouth and leaflets displayed in the windows of local businesses. No more “like and share for a free t-shirt”. No more trending Miss Tornado Day hashtag. Hope you like living in the 1990s.” He paused. “Oh, and the next time you find yourself trapped at the bottom of Lake Eerie, you can forget about sending little zephyrs tapping on my window, because you just broke them, and also because fuck you.”
The great blow seemed to hesitate. The air was thick with dust stirred up by the gale and Wally coughed, choking on the dirt cloud and his own rage.
“You want to throw a tantrum over some little cloudburst flexing it’s muscles? You want to attack a town that’s honoured you every year for over a century? You want to pick a fight with a weatherman?” He held a protective hand in front of his mouth and took a deep breath. “You go right ahead. This little farming community existed when you were a ripple in the earth’s atmosphere, and we’ll be here long after you blow yourself out.”
Wally wiped a layer of grey-brown grit from his face and turned his back on the still, silent landscape. The porch, which had survived three generations of meteorologists-in-training practising their craft on it’s warped wooden boards, lay in ruins. He had to step over the wreckage and pull himself up through the raised doorway in order to enter his small house, but the backdoor slammed with a satisfying finality when he closed it behind him.
Tomorrow, he would contact Eerie Recycling and see if they could make some kind of particle board from the splintered fretwork and shattered railings. There was enough of his family’s history caught up in the warp and weft of those broken planks to make it worth saving. Insulating the garage against an Indiana winter might not result in the same increased property values as a hand-carved wrap-around porch with matching lawn furniture, but it could still be useful.
Outside, the wind began a tentative knocking against the shingled walls. Wally ignored it.
The Weather Series
Wally by froodle, in which a certain weatherman doesn't lose his temper, but is sorely tried
Vacation by froodle, in which Weatherman Wally visits a tropical paradise without ever leaving Eerie city limits
Sick Day by froodle, in which Weatherman Wally does not go to work
The Storm by froodle, in which Mayor Chisel has a very specific job for Eerie's resident weatherman
Setting the Scene by froodle, in which Wally prepares for Christmas
Holidays are Coming by froodle, in which something else prepares for Christmas
Garden by froodle, in which Wally eats ice-cream
Strawberry by froodle, in which there is unauthorised hubbub in Eerie
Stormfront by froodle, in which Wally takes a hands-on approach to firefighting.
Sisters by froodle, in which we visit Normal, Illinois
Still by froodle, in which we find out there are far worse things than Old Bob
Midsummer by froodle, in which the Eerie Express returns, right on schedule
Castle by froodle, in which there is unexpected architecture in Eerie
Waiting In by froodle, in which there is an ice-storm and a handyman does not arrive