“Damn it all, what do you mean you can’t come in, I’m telling you, set those supplies down and get in here and stay awhile, what in the hell has gotten into you?”
Sighing, he did as ordered, stepping gingerly, as if that made any difference, sat on the far end of the tired sofa; from that distance sat with his great-uncle who faced the sea-salted window of his old cottage as he always had, before and after losing his sight, listened while the blind old man continued, “Look at it, the chop has begun, she’s restless; we’re in for a right good blow, we are.”
The younger man didn’t argue, for there was a restless expectation in the air, but what it was could not be divined from the placid water, sparkling with sunshine.
“Been through many a blow, Boy, many a blow, and I can tell you, this is going to be a big one, a mighty big one.”
He watched the robin scouting the crocus filled lawn, muffled a cough, then asked if he wanted him to put the shutters up but the old man just turned his rheumy eyes to him and whispered hoarsely, “No, Boy, no, I just want you to answer me one question, if you can. What kind of a storm is this?”
The link is open at GirlieOnTheEdge‘s blog for sharing stories told in six sentences. The prompt word is “QUESTION“.