gale - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The wind howled, and rain patterned against the windscreen. The battered Douglas Dc-3 trembled in the wind. The lone pilot struggled at the controls as the wind buffeted it first one way, and then another. Caught in the downdraft, the twin engined freighter plummeted. The pilot struggled at the controls to get the aircraft straight again. He looked fearfully at the altimeter, are that it was rapidly rotating backwards. He flung the heavy machine into a bank, trying to escape from the crushing wind. Still lower, he straightened out and lifted up to avoid a church steeple which looked out of the dark in front of him. Suddenly, there was a rending, tearing crash as the plane struck the ground. Both engines exploded in a flash of flame, which ignited the fuel tank. The burning plane skidded on into the fringe of a forest where it's late pilot and cargo were destroyed. The storm slowly died down and buried the pilot and wreckage with a blanket of crisp, white, snow.
When asked to describe the gale that had felled his orchard the old air force pilot looked forlorn. He recalled the creaking of the wood as the relentless wind battered and tore at the branches of his beloved apple trees. The wind he said was 'as loud as a powerful jet engine and had all the mercy of an enemy gunner who has you trapped in his sights'. But beleaguered as he was he then brightened up and told me of his plans to restart from scratch, plant new trees, different varieties. He said ' no gale is going to finish me, I've faces worse foes and won!'
The wind tore at the planks that were held onto the little wooden house by rusty nails. The whole house creaked and groaned, the shutters banged as if some tempestuous night spirit sort to destroy it utterly. Outside the trees swayed with a violence Jet had never seen before. It scared him. What if a branch were ripped off and came crashing toward the house? Rain hammered on the cedar shingled roof as if it were demanding entrance, and indeed some of it was granted it's wish as the water drip, dripped into the one room shack he called home.
Jerome walked over the damp heath like he was wading through treacle. He heaved his legs against the gale, against the pressure building on his chest and hitting his face like it intended to go right through. With eyes squinted to let in only enough light in to navigate, he never slackened his pace. Each step took him closer to home and hearth, to Delilah.
The gale tore around the streets like an out of control locomotive. Anything not nailed down was blown along in it's wake. Litter and newspaper swirled in the air like so much confetti. The wind blustered and whined under the doors, down the chimneys and through the key holes, bringing it's perfect marriage of frigid air and noise to chill us and taunt us with it's power.
The gale howled outside with the violence and raw power of an angry God. The window's rattled and the wind gusted down the chimney bringing it's iciness to the room. The house creaked under the strain and little Jimmy could only describe it as like being trapped in a lion's roar. We watched the trees sway, their trunks like twigs in the wind, and we prayed they would not be uprooted and crash through our roof, After the gale the first thing father vowed to do was chop down those trees.
The howling takes my brain and mis-wires all the synapses. Somehow I can no longer think and if I try to force it the result is scrambled logic. Every gale is the same one to me no matter where or when they occur; they are all on September 9th 1986, the night my father died trying to save some idiot who should have known better than to go fishing that day. In every wind high enough to rattle the garbage cans I'm six years old again and when the trees resettle to an upright position my nails are bitten to the quick and every muscle rigid, unwilling to allow my form to unfurl.
The weather tonight isn't a passive backdrop to whatever we chose to do, it's the thing that dominates every thought and action. There is no movement beyond the walls of any building that does not require one to battle against the wind. Truly it is a gale, one that sends no sign of ebbing. Though no-one says the word "hurricane," it is on every mind. There is such little talk, everyone lost in a tense anxiety, all that is left to inspire our emotions is the screaming wind, every second feeling so much longer than it should.