Storm

“It’s finally raining!” They all left their bar stools and stood at the open door.

“Quite the storm.”

“Raining cats and dogs…”

“Gully washer for sure.”

“Gonna make some gumbo on my road.”

The bar flies stated facts back and forth as rain fell in sheets outside.

“Shut the door, fools!” Butch hollered from behind the bar. “Floor's gettin’ all wet!”

Hank slouched back to his stool. “‘Bout time the floor saw some water. When’s the last time it got washed?”

“Ah, go outside and soak your head. Want a refill?”

“Naw, better head on home, that road’ll be a mess.” Hank threw down some bills and headed to his pickup.

Reaching his farm, the truck headed over that drain pipe under his driveway. Water rushed through the drain, almost to the top of the gravel drive.

Hank stopped the truck at the first rise. He slipped then slid down to the drain pipe, ending in a mud puddle. Now thoroughly wet, Hank yelled at the deluge.

“Heck with those cats and dogs! Give me some fish!” He shook his hand at the sky. Hank crawled back up the muddy slope, left the truck in the sloppy drive. At the porch, he lay on the rough boards and listened to the rain battering the roof.

The sun woke him sometime early next morning. Water had risen to nearly the truck’s hubcaps.

“Some storm. Guess I’m stuck for a spell.” He took off his sodden boots and wandered out to check things out.

“Check this out.” Fish, everywhere. Trout flushed out of the streams. “Well, mercy, thank you!” He gathered all the trout his beat-up ball cap would hold, He stuffed some in his pants pockets and headed inside. Fish for breakfast sounded mighty tasty.


W/C 294