Blown Read online



  BLOWN

  paul andrew taylor

  for Phoebe & Rosita,

  my puppies always

  And that little black thing. Who showed me you can care about cats.

  Published by stealth productions

  Copyright © 2010 by Paul A Taylor

  THE WIND MAKES EVERYONE A LITTLE CRAZY. You can feel it in the air. Men who, every day of their lives, trudge to work like condemned men going to the electric chair suddenly develop a spring in their step, bouncing along, full of exuberance and boyish excitement. Previously sullen women giggle and laugh like schoolgirls, trying to hold down their skirts.

  The wind gets into your head. It echoes and howls in there, putting you on edge and driving you a little crazy. You stand, face into the wind, your head back and mouth open, the wind roaring around you, whipping your clothes back from your body. Now you know why dogs stick their head out the window of the car. It blows away all the gunk, leaving you feeling clean and pure again.

  Wind is the great cleanser. Not rain. Not fire.

  Wind.

  The wind was a phenomenon. It had been roaring across the face of the planet for ten days with no sign of stopping. Meteorologists around the world were at wit's end trying to explain it. Trying to explain how the wind could be blowing across the entire planet at the same time.

  Alamo sat in her office and looked absently out the window at the streets below. From up here there was no sign of the roaring dervish outside. All the litter in the street had been blown clear eight days ago and she couldn't see any trees from up here. No, scratch that, there had been a tree, a pathetic little sapling, maybe three metres high and really a little weedy looking but Alamo had claimed it as her own. It had stood apart, aloof, unaffected by the silly comings and goings of people. Until the day before yesterday.

  Alamo had been on her way up to work, shoving her way through the wind like a particularly convincing mime, when she'd seen it and come to a sudden halt. Her tree, the poor little sapling, had been blown over by the constant wind, it's branches bent down to touch the ground as if it were bowing to her. It's poor little trunk splintered and burst.

  Alamo's shoulders had slumped and she’d shuffled on up to work, all the colour gone out of her day.

  That afternoon Alamo had glanced briefly out the window and seen the sapling snapped off at its base and laying on the ground. The wind tugged and pushed at it like a cat playing with a dead bird and Alamo had felt a sudden useless, burning rage at the wind. That damned ceaseless, hideous wind.

  "Can't it just stop?" she muttered under her breath. "For God's sake can't the wind just stop for five minutes?"

  The wind, unmoved by her pleas, kept blowing.

  Across Martin Place was the ANZ Bank's building, a huge sign mounted on the side of the building proclaimed it to be so. Now Alamo watched in amazement as the sign - wobbling precariously all week - suddenly came loose from its moorings and flung itself out from the building as if taken by the sudden belief it was, in fact, a bird. Carried by the wind for a moment it swept halfway across Martin Place and smashed into the fountain in the middle.

  "Oh my God," Alamo murmured. Luckily it hadn't hurt anyone.

  The wind, always that damn wind. She watched as firemen and police arrived, police left, firemen cleaned up. She wondered what they thought of the wind, wondered if it got into their heads and seemed to howl there the way it did her. Wondered if sometimes they woke up in the middle of the night and heard the wind in their heads, making sounds that were trying to be words. Could be words if they concentrated and listened hard enough.

  Where did all this wind come from, she thought, what strange, foreign places had it swept through? What diseases and mad thoughts might it carry on its wings? What words, spoken by someone and plucked from their mouths and whipped away by the wind. Might they echo there still?

  "Alamo?" The voice distracted her from thoughts of the wind, how strong it was, wondering if maybe it could lift a human being.

  "Alamo?"

  "Hm?" she looked up to see her supervisor standing in the door. He was looking at her in concern.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, his large dark eyes worried.

  "Yeah, John, I'm fine," she smiled. "Just off with the fairies a bit today. It's all this damn wind, it's making me blow."

  He looked at her, politely confused. "Sorry?"

  "I said the wind, it's making me crazy."

  "Oh, okay," said John. "Well, you take care now. Don't let it get to you, the weathermen reckon it'll blow itself out in a few more days."

  Alamo snorted. "The weathermen! They can't even explain why it's still blowing."

  "I guess not," said John. "But cheer up. It can't blow forever."

  "No," said Alamo. "I guess not."

  She felt a trifle saddened at that for some reason and didn't know why. It was good that the wind would stop. The damn wind, she didn't want it blowing constantly, messing her hair, whipping her clothes around and just plain annoying her.

  She wondered where the wind went when it wasn't blowing.

  When Alamo left that afternoon the wind had built to a screaming crescendo so loud that it blocked out all rational thought. No longer something of nature but a chorus of a thousand thousand shrieking madmen. She wouldn't even have been able to hear herself shout. Or blow.

  The wind tore at her, almost pushing her along. Almost lifting her off her feet. She wondered if it might simply blow so hard it would simply carry her away. It seemed ludicrous that the wind could lift a person but she wondered.

  The next day at work all Alamo was capable of doing was sitting and staring out the window, wishing she could actually see the wind. If she could just catch a glimpse of it everything would be better. She knew it. If she could see it maybe it wouldn't tug at her so badly any more, then she could dismiss it just like everyone else and get on with her life. It's only wind. It'll blow out soon.

  John appeared at her door and made hooting, whooshing noises at her, his mouth comically forming the sounds.

  Alamo stared at him. "What?" she said.

  "Centrepoint Tower," he said, twitching with nervous excitement. "You gotta come see it, Al. The whole fucking tower just blew down!"

  "Are you kidding me?" said Alamo.

  "It’s crazy," said John. "Half of Pitt Street Mall is just trashed-" his face fell for a second. "Jesus," he said. "Imagine all those people. Oh God…" he wandered off down the hallway.

  Alamo stared at the doorway for long seconds after John had left, listening to the dwindling sound of him making whistling noises like wind blowing across a bottle.

  After a while she went back to staring out the window, looking at that hateful wind and wondering what it would be like to ride it. Thoughts of toppled towers far from her mind.

  The wind tore at her as soon as she walked out of the building. It seemed, thought Alamo, to tug ceaselessly at her and her only, as if it wanted her specifically. It pulled and tugged at her clothes like an excited child trying to lead her along to some new excitement. Finally, she let it.

  Why not? She was in no hurry to go home, it wasn't like there was anyone waiting for her. Not even Furball, her little silky terrier, not any more. He'd died almost two weeks ago, curled up in blankets in front of the heater, smothered with Alamo's kisses and with half a doggy chocolate still resting between his paws. The day before this damn wind had started.

  The wind led her down George Street, away from the afternoon bustle of the city towards the Rocks and she let herself be taken. She tried to remember the last time she'd been in the Rocks and couldn't. It didn't matter.

  The wind carried her around under the Harbour Bridge and up into the winding streets on the far side. It took her along the old, narrow streets until she reached a high point th
at overlooked the Harbour and, immediately before it, the docks where massive cargo ships birthed crate-loads of cars.

  She paused and looked down at it, feeling the wind tugging at her restlessly. The fence was low here, low enough for her to climb over.

  The wind tugged at her.

  She could jump, she knew, that way if the wind didn't catch her straight away she should nearly be able to make it across to the harbour. From somewhere back in the city she heard the sound of another building crashing to the ground.

  Without thinking, thinking nothing but of the roaring wind between her ears, Alamo clambered up over the fence and stood on the narrow ledge on the other side. She clung to the fence and looked down and felt vertigo rush up at her. The vertigo, like the wind, excited her. She strained against her arms, leaning out as far as she could, feeling the wind running its fingers through her hair, caressing her face, pulling urgently at her clothes as it tried to get them away.

  Just then a strong burst of wind came along and it buffeted Alamo rudely in the back, her fingers, their grip already tenuous, came loose and she felt herself tipping forward into the air.

  She didn't scream. Just closed her eyes and held out her arms and toppled forward, the wind rushing and roaring about her head and whispering in her ears. She toppled out into space.

  The wind would catch her.

  THE END

  Marrickville, 2010

  * * *

  Hello! Did you enjoy that? If so please consider leaving a review. As an indie author, reviews are my bread and butter, and the more of those I get the more of these I can create for you.

  If you liked the sound of my voice in your head you can sign up for my email list and get updates and cool stuff straight in your inbox.

  And if you really enjoyed my stuff you can grab my other works via here. Or follow my facebook page here.

  about me

  I currently live in a ridiculously small 3 bedroom house with my girlfriend, our cat, my girlfriend's mum, my girlfriend's sister, her husband, their baby, their cat and a stray little black-and-white kitten we found outside.

  With only two "officially" published stories, I have been writing far longer than is necessarily sensible. And yet I am drawn back to it again and again. I can't imagine a life where I don't continually fail to be any kind of successful writer. So every day I plug away and I create a little more and, now and then, I put it out there for some hapless bypasser to pick up and try.

  Hope to see you around again.

  stealth out