Warm winds

Warm winds flapped at DC O’Hara’s windbreaker as she knelt beside the body. She looked up at the pale and frightened woman who found him. “Did you touch anything?” she asked.

“No,” the woman gulped. “I mean, he’s obviously dead. I dialed 911 and got away from him.”

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “warm winds.”

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Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

2 thoughts on “Warm winds”

  1. Warm winds . She thought when she emerged from the gate . First thought . Quickly changed to hot wind. Oh ,oh , really hot winds. It was like putting her whole self into a mildly hot oven . The winds entered her nostrils and dried the walls up . It blew grit and sand into her already tearing eyes, inside the goggles . It seared her arms as she held the handlebars, and it entered her loose T-shirt and cooked her skin from the inside . The scalp kept cool , thanks to the helmet .

    A layer of fine , salty , dust settled on the parched lips . Her throat was already craving a bottle of chilled water . She wondered if , in a matter of days , she would turn brown baked and leathery , wrinkled like the people who sped past her , on her bikes , totally oblivious to the heat , sun , dust and grit .

    Sun had turned everything luminous , incandescent , glowing . Crops wilted in the parched fields . Roadside bushes all dried up. Dry kindling . Someone set fire to an abandoned plot next to her home last evening . She watched mesmerised , as a small leaf shaped tongue of fire , quickly engulfed the entire plot. Fanned by hot winds , turned a patch of peaceful bushes into a roaring , hungry , crackling inferno . When the flames lit up her walls in flickers of orange tongues , that the horror crept in . But someone had already brought a bucket of water . Next morning ,an ugly patch of black remained ,smouldering ominously at the edges , and the grey ash floated into the balcony , settling on her potted plants , laundry and chairs.

    The bush ash swirled in small waves in the corner of the house , come riding on the hot tropical summer wind.

  2. Chop and crop. Hoe and weed fight the battle,
    survival of the fittest
    and I, the most unfit in this growing space,
    dogged in my determination to bring extermination
    to every green thing I did not seed and plant
    and yet knowing I will not win;
    the hot sun, the gentle rains, the manure spread last fall,
    the warm winds will all conspire against me
    and in the end, the weeds will win and dominate this space.
    But for one hour, one day I will see orderly rows
    and not a weed in sight. For one hour I will be victor.
    I can live with that.

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