January 14th – The storm raged on without any hope of being saved.
We give them names, now.
Despite their ephemerality, who they are matters. Alphabetical siblings: Ali, Bronagh, Callum, Dierdre, Eric. They’re like people now, with personalities, and we can track their approach, hope they’re not to unkind to us, ask them to be nice.
But they’re soon forgotten.
And we never ask the cost of giving them names, real names, and personalities to match. Because once you name something, you make it real.
Eric was raging.
He had a maximum pressure depth of 960hPa, and winds approaching 85 miles per hour. Eric was a force to be reckoned with. He was angry, and he was baring his teeth. Bringer of rain (and snow to higher ground), Eric was bringing widespread disruption across the north and west of England and Wales, and much the same to Ireland. Power lines were coming down, loose slates were in trouble, fence panels were under threat.
Trees groaned. Branches twisted themselves loose. Leaves curtained the street. Eric bared his teeth.
Power lines snaked sparks to the ground, dancing electricity under a purple sky. Eric snarled.
Windows smashed. Car alarms were a discordant street choir. Eric howled.
But, like a mayfly, Eric’s time was short. His life was a day, two days, three at most. And then Eric would be no more. And we would get on with our lives, and wait for Freya, Eric’s sister to throw her force at us. Eric would be gone. At the height of his power, Eric was dying.
The storm raged on, without a hope of being saved.
Inspired by a prompt from here.