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[Inlander]

Because I'm still amused by today's forecast, as mentioned here:

http://forums.questionablecontent.net/index.php/topic,22300.msg770930.html#msg770930

Here are the "rules":

1) Use the weather forecast or current weather report for your local town or area.
2) Choose a genre.
3) Write a short scene or story in that genre, incorporating as many of the details of the weather report as you want. If possible, use the weather details in a manner that is suggestive of, but not actually directly relating to weather.
4) Please include some mention of the date, whether it be the month, the day of the month, the day of the week, or all three. It's not necessary to include the year (so as not to exclude stories set in the future or in the past), but you can if you want.

Here is an example, using elements of today's forecast for Melbourne:

Ahem.

The Melbourne sun came in through the window like a clumsy burglar. I shut the blinds. "Not today, pal." I poured myself a glass of scotch, blended, not single-malt. It wasn't my first drink of the morning, it was my last of the night before. I remember when I made enough cash from this lousy job to afford a real drink, but hey, like Jimmy down the pawn shop says: "If it's got alcohol in it . . ."

There was a knock at the door, sharp, like whoever was doing the knocking didn't need my help or anyone else's. But people only ever come to me when they need help.

Maybe if I hadn't needed the money so bad I wouldn't've opened it. But I opened it. Got up outta my chair and walked right across the floor of the office, just like that, like a sucker walking right into a punch. I already knew it was gonna be a dame on the other side of the door. Dame's the only ones ever bother knocking.

She said her name was Monday. I didn't believe her, but hey, a dame says that's her name, that's her name. She had a look about her: sultry, but unsettled. Like if anyone started anything with her, it could get cloudy any time. Like you never knew if you might get thunderstorms . Not young, but not old: 30, no more than 31. Yeah, I knew the type.

"I've got a job for you" she said. Business. It's always gotta be business.

Like so. Your turn!

[Elizzybeth]

Daddy always told me I rode in on a southernly wind.  The stork was capricious, he told me.  Was biding its time.  Didn't want to let me drop until the last possible moment--Daddy was 42 when I was born.  He would've turned 79 in February.

It wasn't until the morning of the memorial that I wished he hadn't been cremated.  I thought maybe seeing his calm, wrinkled face would put me at peace.  Would stop the flood of tears.  Would prove to me that he wasn't still mad at me when he passed.

He thought of himself as a "mainly sunny" kind of guy, and that infuriated me.  "Dad," I pleaded for the tenth time, the night before he died, "You're sick.  You've got to see the doctors.  They've got things that can help you, medicines."

"Baby, I'm fine.  I've pulled through worse before.  Doctors don't know what they're doing."

"You're being ridiculous!  Seriously, you've got to go!  You're going to die if you don't!"

The winds began to rise.  I could hear little flurries, dust devils of anger swirl on the other end of the line.  And then it passed.  Dad cleared his throat, "And ain't that my prerogative?"

The line went dead.  And so did he, just twelve hours later.

[Inlander]

Great!

Oops, and I forgot to include the other rule:

5) Please include some reference to or mention of the town or area for which you are using the forecast or weather report.

(You don't have to edit yours if you don't want to, Elizzybeth.)

[Johnny C]

Lord, says Sutton.
The Kid exhales and watches his breath become wispy grey trails of steam drifting gently towards Orion. No wind picks em up.
Yup.
How cold do you think it'll be gettin tonight?
Colder 'n the heart of the Devil hisself.
Shit.
Yup.
Sutton holds his hands over the fire and in the light the kid can see blood on em. Great ruddy streaks of it. Blood of bandits stains his clothes, blood of scalps stain his knife. Their sled dogs pant and whine in the lean-to. New year's first month wasn't kind to em. Their spittle cakes the edges of their mouths, icy globs of it. They shiver together as one. Huddled for warmth. Sutton lets his teeth chatter a little.
Shit, he mutters. We best be headin in before we freeze.
He turns around to head into the lean-to and the Kid picks up his hatchet. No we, he says. Sutton turns around to say something and he says it to the blade of the hatchet. It sounds like Glungalguh. Sutton slumps to his knees. The Kid pulls the hatchet up with a jerk that sends bits of Sutton's skull flyin everywhere. Sutton puts up his hands weakly but before he can get em to his face the Kid strikes again. And again. And again.
Wispy grey trails of steam drift gently towards Orion. No wind picks em up. The moon unhindered by cloud casts clear pale light on the bloodstained snow which shines red and rich and the Kid can see where Sutton's brain is leakin out of his head, where he kept his memories and his hopes and his dreams, where he kept his last thoughts which were assuredly No please don't pleas–
Nothin now but bone and blood and food for the wolves. The Kid looks down and he can see where Sutton kept his share of the cash. And the compass. He bends down and takes it, tosses it in Sutton's pack, takes Sutton's pack for his own sled, hitches up the dogs. A large branch becomes a torch and he sets it at the bottom of the lean-to, where he's hauled Sutton's body.
Mush, he tells the dogs, crackin the whip. The funeral pyre recedes. It'll be days before anyone finds it out here. By then he'll have hit Pile o' Bones, spent his money on some whores and some whiskey.
By then he'll be long gone.
Mush, he tells the dogs, crackin the whip.

[jodizzle]

Writing makes me sad these days because I seem to have lost my touch.  But I did i anyway! (I am sorry Harry but I honestly could not think of a way to put 'Toowoomba' into any kind of story ever, so I broke rule number 5 like a jerk).


Chance curled her toes as she sat on the windowsill.  It was overcast outside, which suited her just fine.  Nothing got her gloom on better than a cloudy day, and nothing thrilled her more than being gloomy.  Any excuse to stare out the window and contemplate the likelihood of her dying today.  Monday, always a good day for potential suicide.  She was aware that thoughts like this were going to be responsible for the precipitation of her own demise, but she longed for that in the same way small girls yearned for their fairytale weddings.  It began to rain, and Chance dreamed that one day she would fall from the sky and hit the pavement in the same elegant way.

[Inlander]

In this thread we learn that weather makes people think of death.

[jodizzle]

Haha, that is because everyone currently has grim weather except you.  It is predicted to be gloomy for the rest of the week here. This is not how summer should be!

[Slick]

More like Jodrizzle, am I right?

[jodizzle]

Oh James, you are so right.

[Darkbluerabbit]

This is angsty poetry cliches projected onto weather.

It will snow again today,
they say.
But it grows colder, and the snow becomes sleet, freezing rain piles icicle upon icicle,
It grows heavy, weighing down frozen leaden hands,
but soon the melting comes, and all your poetry dissolves into a pool of lost thoughts.