pinecesttrain:

Storm stories are pinecest tradition. Since I grew up with hurricanes, seems right I should make mine during one.

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The sky is gray. The air is cool. The wind is restless, yet somehow Mabel feels like everything is still.

She’s sitting in a wicker chair, watching the trees and bushes sway with the gusts, waves rolling up the beach behind them. It’s a strange sensation, that still feeling. She sees the plants sway to and fro almost constantly, yet it is the moments when they stop, when the water drifts softly back into the ocean, that stick with her. That build the mood of the calm before the storm. The peculiar harbingers of the devastation that will soon arrive if not for her.

She wonders if those who lived here in the days before satellites saw these hints, knew what they meant. If they would have merely thought some lesser storm were on its way. A simple rain shower or the vibrant power of thunder storm, all dwarfed equally by the maelstrom now coming. How could they have known any difference in the signs without mankind’s mechanical eyes in the sky?

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