The Weatherman A short story about changing fortunes.

In Words
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A long night.

No, a longer night. And that only scared him about the next one. He looked over to the clock’s red digital face which showed that it was a time for sane people to be asleep:  0h500.

In all fairness he had tried, rolling from one side of the bed to the other, looking for a cold spot, turning the pillow over, under, throwing the bed covers off, anything for a cold place to lie down and doze off. It had been a long hot night.

He rolled over to his left and remembered something he had read in some cheesy magazine about lying on the left decreasing his sperm count. Not one to be suspicious and gullible, he rolled over to his right. What a long night.

There had been a mosquito that had a kamikaze agenda during the night. It had dodged his blind blows, and twice he had accidentally slapped his ear, following the whining wing beats of the mosquito. It had annoyed him to no end.

He rolled on to his back. He knew that he would have a pounding headache the rest of the day for lack of sleep. Work, the kitchen cupboard that needed to be fixed, that phone call from an angry girlfriend he had ignored and the late assignments for the boss. All of them paraded through his mind but he saw nothing that had any merit to keep him up. It really had been a long night.

He rolled onto his left again, accepting that he would just have to adopt a kid later in life. Probably a Congolese kid, Malawians seemed to be all the rage these days and he did not follow the crowd.

This night had to end sometime.

While he thought about the adoption procedures that he would have to go through, a small glow invaded the room, creeping through the window, sneaking round the curtains and peeking into the room. In a matter of seconds, the sunrays were shooting through the sides of the curtains, barraging the room. He sat up in bed, dangling his feet over the sides. Looking at the curtains, he walked over to them and drew them open, slowly. He screwed his eyes as the early morning light blinded him momentarily. And then he opened them fully.

The morning sky was littered here and there with small cotton clouds, some huddled together for warmth and some floating lazily in the sea of blue. In between the sunrays swam through, turning the edges of the clouds purple and pink. High above, some of the clouds remained white, avoiding their colourful neighbours below. Pretty soon they would drift down from their high lofts and float down to join the child’s play. On the horizon, the clouds stretched off in a dark purple band. The sun was not yet high enough to completely turn them white yet.

He stood, looking at the scene for a moment and then he turned back to the room, surveying the bed that offered no sleep, the insomnia machine that had tormented him the whole night. In a few minutes the alarm would wake up from its slumber and be shocked that he had beaten it this one time. He walked out of the room and headed to the bathroom for his morning shower.

High above, the clouds began their early morning costume changes as they shrugged off their pyjamas, first the purple, then the pink and then they put on their everyday work clothes, white. They looked down at James’s and smiled to themselves. The lead cloud called to the others, alerting them that James was up again. They liked James. He was a weatherman, and few people understood clouds as James did. Meaning that he did not understand them at all. “He said it would rain today, lads”, said Cloudy.

“Let’s see who can hold their pee the longest,” said Tufty. They all laughed at that.

James was a terrible weatherman; he would be fired that same morning.

Author’s note: I wrote this story a long time ago and because I could not sleep last night I decided to re-work it a bit. Mostly it’s just ironing out mistakes and spelling errors. I think I got most of them. It is a nonsense story with no real purpose. But who said stories had to have a purpose? Just make believe.