Rendered Fat Content


"The curtain hardly falls before another fist cloud boils up into the last of any day's sunlight."

The drenching rain comes in the third act, once the set-up drama just about ends. Some small overlap seems necessary for a smooth transition, but the drenching foreshadows the end. The credits will roll over driveways and ditches draining away the final residue and the standing water starting to seep into soil hardly thirsty by then. I might not even stay up for the final acts, since I prefer the dramatic lead-up much more than the down falling denouement. I appreciate the moisture, but worship the thunder and the lightning.

I saw what first appeared to be tall sails slipping above low clouds already in sunset's shadow.
Through a slight separation, a fist of brilliant white slipped over at considerable speed, punching further up as it scudded by. I could hear a rumble like an overloaded train moving through the distance. I pulled up a chair and commenced to stare up the mountain, suspecting an invasion from due West this time. The forces felt especially focused this evening. I think my exhaustion improved the quality of the dramatic build, as I could not hold my focus steady. I might have been dozing between breaths because the overall continuity seemed as choppy as the underlaying cloud. The rumbling began separating into distinct bursts. I caught the merest glimpse of flash, followed by a slightly delayed crash. The storm had begin.

Two afternoons before, the rumble had continued non-stop for at least an hour and the lightning strike map was completely covered with overlapping yellow lightning bolt icons. This assault looked similar, but would pass slightly more South of us. I pulled up the airport's traffic map and watched as dozens of flights circled their destination, turning around storm cells almost complete encircling their landing place. Stacked into neat, tight spirals, I wonder why we insist upon subjecting ourselves to such buffeting when there's ample seating hear beneath the awning below cloud level. I've got family scheduled for one of those flights so I took this drama personally.

I tried counting between visible flashes and could not get to three, not for the longest time. A slight spattering of skirmishing rain drove me a little deeper beneath the overhang and I moved into a porch column's shadow to block the neighbor's driveway light from night blinding me. I could see the bulk of the battle happening just over the ridge to my south, with me still counting a scant one or two between new bursts of light, gusts of fright. I might be hypnotized. I've forgotten about supper and sip another reassuring beer, poised on the balls of my feet, witnessing a small history in the making. A flash flood warning will be duly released by the authorities. Surprisingly, every damned plane stacked up over this broad plain will have found safe harbor again, shaken and likely stirred by this most recent brush but not dissuaded in the least from risking a repeat performance. Nobody who's anybody stays home anymore, so compelling seems the likely drama out there. The curtain hardly falls before another fist cloud boils up into the last of any day's sunlight.

©2019 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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