By Terry Wynne //
The back-yard furniture lay strewn across the soggy lawn. Sheets of horizontal rain sprouted through the open screen windows. Harry’s pants and shirt were drenched as he slammed each window shut. Overhead, the tempest pressed downward, the storm roiling only a few hundred feet above. Lighting crackled, not from a distance, but from nearby, seeming a matter of a few hundred steps. He felt the woof of power leaking and then shutting down. The rooms of the house were enveloped in darkness.
After scouring the hilltop, the storm shifted away. An unsteady calm prevailed over the windswept, mangled hilltop. He opened the windows. Dozens of trees were toppled, a few shorn clean of their tops. Limp willow branches that had snapped rested over drooping powerlines.
Harry awoke to the roar of a powersaw, grinding its way through tender fibers. A raw, sweet, burning scent pervaded the air. Neighbors were surveying the scene. Sad eyes couldn’t hide the racing thoughts – any savings that was squirreled away would now vanish once again. The power company was sawing and removing branches that had downed the power lines. Dump trucks hauled the branches away.
Mr. Santamore pointed to the downed power line. “They say it was a series of tornadoes. Two people died over at the Fairgrounds. Good thing it didn’t happen during the day, with 40,000 people out in the open.”
Harry didn't want to leave for New York, but his parents insisted that they would be all right. They had candles and the gas still worked. They had enough food until the power would be restored. As his car glided down the hill, he passed the unlit houses. The entire hillside was engulfed in darkness.