Atalanta

Canada

Atalanta is for the Greek myth. She was fearless, faster than any man, cunning, beautiful, and wild, in her own way. She could use a bow better than anyone but Artemis, and had a passion for nature and animals.

Message from Writer

"All good things are wild and free." -Henry David Thoreau

Bull Of Wind and Earth

August 27, 2017

PROMPT: Slow Seeing

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1:00 PM. The sky is not it's normal shade of purplish blue, but nearing teal in colour. I can see a wall of brick-like clouds moving forward in the sky. They resemble some godly figure pushing forward building blocks of grey steamy matter. The first move in a devastating game.
1:30 PM. Is it night? Am I underwater? The sky is so dark, and the murky green of the sea. Light filters through the clouds the same way as it does in the waves of a lake. Dust and debris fly around in the wind. Dust sticks to my clammy skin, and coats my eyes, hair whips my face until it stings in pain.
1:45 PM. Newspaper floats in space like a hummingbird, Scraps billowing wide and full, then shooting like missiles at the odd thrill seeking bystander and the ghost of a town left behind. A rogue umbrella flutters by, as though it was rejoicing in the last of human hand on its crook.
2:00 PM. The world's ceiling is now pea green. A funnel seems to have taken shape around the southern point of town. It is a grey and brown swirling mass broad at the top, and growing narrower and denser at the bottom. Hail thunders down from the heavens, bouncing upon the battered fields and the asphalt pavement. Little icy balls collect around my feet and the roaring grows to an utterly deafening roar. The tornado is formed.
2:15 PM. The wind suddenly stopped. All was still, the long shafts of golden wheat stood straight and still on their stalks. It was that moment before something breaks in someone. When all is in perfect stillness and calmness. It's funny how calm is so close to calamity.
2:30 PM. Then a whirlwind of time and space and dirt flew in an incessant spiral. A cone of flying grit spinning up everything in its range. Lifting wired wood fences from barren earth, raising cattle's hooves from the grass, slipping tiles from roofs. The wilken was split pea soup, the funnel a rampaging bull clearing all in its path.
3:00 PM. ...
 

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