The Storm
Seymour Hine Year 9
s the sun rose in the East, golden rays of sunlight swept through the streets and the frozen morning air bit the villagers as they left their houses. The dead grass and flowers were blanketed in a layer of frost and very soon the cobbled streets were full of voices. School had ended for Christmas, but the atmosphere was far frommerry. The youths were free to roam the town as they pleased, although there was not much to roam in this small settlement. They mostly lounged around in their houses by the warmth of the fire. Mr Wells strolled through the town’s suburbs as he headed to his fields. He was a brittle old man, never ceasing to amaze the town with his endless farming. They wondered to how a man of such an old age could (and was willing to) work the fields every day, every year. He had no children, always said he never wanted any. Through the wire fence he watched as two hens fought over some food. Pecking with their beaks and tearing at one another with their claws they battled on, waiting A
for the other to tire and falter. Occasionally, one or the other would let out a shrill cry of fury before beginning another flurry of attacks. Eventually, one fell and dragged her exhausted body away, reluctantly admitting defeat. The other, victorious, quickly ate the scrap and began a hunt for more. On the other side of the track, a pig sat content, lying lazily in the corner of its enclosure, its snout covered in a layer of uneaten pig meal. Its beady eyes watched me suspiciously as I walked past. As he neared his barn, he slowed. The weather was worsening. It began as drizzle of rain, but as time continued, so did the rain. In the last few weeks, storms were usual and
Pecking with their beaks and tearing at one another with their claws they battled on, waiting for the other to tire and falter
worsening, and every morning, the villagers had a small hope of improvement, but little came, and a dull blanket of dread began to smother the few sparks of hope. Mr Wells stumbled and nearly fell, just grasping a rundown fence before his frail bones hit the ground. Looking back, he saw a solitary tuft of grass reaching through a murky puddle of water, a small spec of green on this long walk of grey and pale white. Its desperate attempt to survive through this harsh winter looked feeble and around it lay the shriveled or drowned remains of the thriving and overgrown path of the summer. His footsteps and the wind were the only noise heard in these fields as he approached the farm. The sky was now deep, rich navy, although nothing about this seemed rich or hopeful. The storm clouds were massing, and winds were picking up. Fat droplets of water began to rain down from the sky and Mr Wells quickened his pace, desperate to get to shelter. Farming in this was out of the question for Mr Wells. The rain kept coming and coming and a glance outside did not look good. The day was coming to an end, though it was hard to tell, and so was this storm. The lightning was less frequent and the rain less heavy. Stepping outside, Mr Wells’ mood darkened. The ground was saturated with water and his fields were a muddy swamp. The winds that shook the battered barn had unrooted the crops and the rain had washed the surviving ones away. There were no
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