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somesecretpie · 8 months ago

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Weather Woman (Short Story)

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. An eyewitness, Ms. Self, said the weather was to blame but Susan knew it was anything but that. This was homicide. Divine intervention.

“My poor poor little pansies,” she said, peering over their wilted corpses. It had officially been a whole year since Susan’s county had any rainfall. Several months ago, the town began issuing fines to anyone who dared to water their lawn. Susan did not find this to be much of an issue—she continued to keep her garden green as suburbia withered and died around her, until she ran into a small problem.

Susan ran out of money.

From all the fines she was paying.

She reentered her home, morning paper in one hand, and her weekly subscription to “Martha Stewart Living” in the other. Her house was a wondrous temple of correct furniture and appropriate color palettes, bowls of plastic fruit at the center of each faux-mahogany table. Photographs of a happy family arranged in a symmetrical pattern (Not her own, though; they were stock images.) She would have absolute perfection, were it not for that scorched eyesore that marked her entryway garden.

Susan poured her morning coffee, popped a bagel in the toaster, and turned on the weather channel for her district. That was the only thing she watched now: The weather. Mr. John Sunday in front of his green screen, with his little yellow bowtie, and his eyes the color of the unchanging sky. He looked quite unremarkable for a man that disseminated such important information to the public, but looks can be deceiving. One does not look at a perfect egg and see themselves contracting salmonella.

“Please, John, some rain for my pansies,” Susan whispered into her morning coffee. She turned up the volume and his pleasant voice filled the living room.

“Good morning, Marin County! It’s gonna be nothing but blue skies this week. Perfect weather for going on a nice long walk. And enjoying all that mother nature has to offer—“

Susan threw her bagel at the television in a fit of anger. Then promptly cleaned it off the floor and swept it into the wastebin.

What did she do to deserve these never-ending blue skies? I’m a nice woman, aren’t I? she lamented. Don’t I deserve purple pansies? Don’t I deserve a little rain?

There was something malicious and secret behind John’s blue eyes. Something he knew that she did not. She could not bear to look at them!

She shut off the TV.

Her heart beat madly in her chest. What ever would Susan do? Refill her bed of flowers with desert cacti and succulents? No, wrong color palette. Take out a loan to continue watering her plants? Now that would be ridiculous…

The weather was to blame—but Susan had a poor understanding of it. What went on up there in the sky? Who, exactly, could she send a strongly worded email to?

That same morning, Susan Kelvin decided she would take out a loan after all, but not to water her plants. Instead, she would go back to her local community college to study meteorology. She was quite sure that most of her coursework was merely propaganda from Big Weather, but she needed that associate's degree so she could learn that secret that lurked behind the eyes of Mr. John Sunday. So she could join his ranks. So she could become a Weather Woman.

Susan applied to the local television network with high hopes. The fate of her future rested on their acceptance. She snuggled into bed that same night of her application and dreamed of fresh purple pansies dotting the corners of her deep green lawn. But...something was terribly wrong!

Susan gasped for breath and opened her eyes. Strong hands grasped her arms, the fabric of a bag over her face—she was being kidnapped! Oh this is going to work horribly with my schedule! thought Susan. She began to protest but a harsh voice shushed her to silence. She was shoved into a car.

After an hour or so of stumbling around, the bag was lifted, and Susan blinked rapidly. She was in a musty room lit by candles. Deactivated cameras hung on racks against the wall, and a circle of sharply dressed bodies surrounded her, their shadows bending and stretching in the flickering light.

“Welcome,” someone said. “You have been called before our chapter because of your personal obsession with the weather. And from our understanding, your qualifications may permit that obsession to become...something more.”

Susan struggled to get her bearings. In front of her was, if she was not mistaken, sliced tofu arranged into an occult symbol.

“Your name is Susan Kelvin and you have a degree in meteorology from Marin County Community College, is this correct?”

“Yes,” Susan confirmed.

“You live alone, your parents are deceased, and you have no friends or loved ones. Is this also correct?”

“Who are you people?”

Susan then noticed that she recognized the woman sitting on her left—it was Ms. Rivers from channel eight. A proper weatherwoman, straightened and carefully sculpted black hair, with a stormy gray pantsuit that tastefully contrasted against her dark complexion. And to her right was that weatherman from channel seven what’s-his-face (his appearance was not noteworthy). And at the very front, at the head of the body of bodies, the man who had been speaking to her was none other than Mr. John Sunday in his yellow bow tie.

“What interest do you have in becoming a Weather Woman, Ms. Susan Kelvin?”

“I…um…”

They waited patiently for her answer. It suddenly occurred to Susan that this was probably a job interview. She straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her.

“I believe I could bring a lot of value and a unique perspective to the weather conversation,” Susan said. “It has affected me personally…My district hasn’t had any rain in over a month.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “That must be terrible for you.”

“What are you apologizing for? You can’t control the weather.”

John Sunday leaned forward, and his blue eyes flashed a deep dark red. “Oh but we can.”

“Can what?”

“We control the weather, Susan.”

Susan narrowed her eyes. “That is completely absurd. You’re all a bunch of wierdo people who kidnapped me and I’m...I’m going to tell the authorities!”

“No one will believe you,” whispered Rivers.

Susan glared at everyone, but the weather people held still, not a trace of doubt of their ability. But surely the truth about the weather would not be so…uncomplicated. Surely the unseen forces that murdered her flowers would not have human faces.

“I don’t believe you,” Susan said plainly. “But I do need this job so that I can pay off my student loans–”

“The forecasters bear a burden.” John ignored her question. The speech was likely rehearsed. “To be a forecaster is self-sacrifice! To be a forecaster is to be a champion of the greater good! Does that describe you, Susan Kelvin?”

She hesitated.

Champion is rather vague. It can have multiple meanings.

She thought of her beautifully decorated house.

Oh, but I am certainly good.

She thought of her neighbors and their inferior sense of style.

And I am certainly greater!

Slowly, Susan nodded her head.

The weather people muttered amongst themselves enthusiastically, like children, until silenced by John.

“Excellent,” he said. “Very good. Then, on behalf of the California chapter of forecasters, the masters of the weather, we welcome you. Thank you, Great Mother.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” the weatherpeople said in tandem.

Someone clapped twice, and the overhead lamps blasted light everywhere.

“You’ll be shadowing Rivers tomorrow at eight. Look sharp,” John said dramatically, but without the candlelight defining his cheekbones, it was quite hard to take him seriously.

The next day, Susan arrived at exactly eight o’ clock, wearing her best suit, and hair pulled back in a tight bun. She found Rivers, on set, eating conservatively from a bag of soynuts.

“Oh hey! It’s you,” the weatherwoman said. “Sorry about all that cult stuff. John can be so dramatic.”

Susan smiled in relief, but quickly hid it away. “That is an understatement,” she muttered. “Will there be any more kidnappings?”

“Only for your monthly status report,” she said, “But give me your number and I can text you before it happens.”

Susan did so hesitantly, and kept staring at her phone after the fact. She had one whole contact now. How quaint.

That day, Susan was supposed to examine the cue cards, inspect the camera crews, and stare intently at the weatherwoman, noting every minute thing she did. Rivers delivered her forecast with a smile. Blue skies again.

“That’s disappointing,” Susan said to her over lunch. “I was hoping for some rain in my district.”

“John already has the weather planned out for the next few weeks,” Rivers said stiffly. “So sorry.”

Susan did not laugh. “This again? Tell me you do not believe this “controlling the weather” nonsense! You are not wizards!”

“Did you not see our occult symbols?”

Susan swatted at the air. “Meaningless shapes.”

“And what about John’s flashing red eyes?”

Susan’s voice lowered to a whisper, “Now, I don’t know about that…But he should see a medical professional.”

Rivers rolled her eyes and left to prepare for her evening forecast. When it was done and there were no more cue cards to read from, she very quickly told the audience, in a joking manner, that there would be isolated showers over their recording studio from exactly five fifty PM to five fifty one PM. She then strut off the stage with a smirk.

“Well, that’s an oddly specific forecast—“

The weather woman grabbed her by the wrist and led her all the way to the back-door exit with the recycling and the parking lot.

“Check your phone,” Rivers said.

Susan did not see why she should, there would be no messages. This was because she only had one contact, you see. But as she held her phone in her hand, a large raindrop splattered on the screen. Then another. And now rain was pouring from the sky, dripping down her hair and suit. Susan’s jaw dropped. She had not felt rain in so long. It was five-fifty. And by five fifty-one, the clouds departed as if swept away by a large broom. The sunlight stung her face.

Rivers smiled at her.

So they really did control the weather.

This revelation posed a great many questions. Like, why did the public not know about this? And why did the weathercasters have these powers? And why had Susan studied for two years to become a meteorologist when she could just pulled forecasts out of her asshole? Susan frowned. Now that she thought about it, it was rather odd that her meterology courses mostly consisted of specifications for ritual sacrifice and obedience lessons. Susan had simply thought it was “one of those things” about academia.

“Well, Rivers…”

“Yes, Susan?”

“I suppose this whole “forecasting” thing is...it’s fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun doesn’t do it justice!” Rivers said, through a handful of soynuts. “Just knowing how much power there is behind your every word. So long the camera is rolling, there is nothing stopping you from doing anything you damn well please!” Rivers laughed heartily, but kept her eyes trained on Susan. “Except your conscience, of course!”

“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “Ha ha!”

Fun doesn’t do it justice…It had been a while since Susan Kelvin had fun. She tried to remember when that was.

Oh, yes, of course!

It had been two weeks ago. Susan had just gotten home from work after a rough day, shoulders drooping, hair ruffled, when she looked down on her front porch and saw a beetle. The bug was turned on its back, legs flailing weakly in the air. There was nothing nearby for grasping, nothing but hot sunburned concrete. This bug had no way of righting itself yet it struggled still. Susan sat down and watched this bug. She watched it until it stopped moving. Until it returned to its natural state. Nonexistence. That had been fun, Susan remembered fondly. I am eager to have fun again.

After two days of shadowing Rivers, Susan was given her own partition of airtime over her district and a weekly forecast by her fellow weatherpeople. She delivered the forecast exactly as instructed. Blue skies.

“Pretty good for a first-time,” Rivers said. “Although, you were a bit stiff. Trying showing more emotion, more body language, you know?” She placed her fingers on her own cheekbones, pressing them upward. “Remember to smile.”

Susan didn’t know why she hadn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t having fun yet. She spent the rest of that evening practicing smiling in the mirror. She read Martha Stewart, baked a five-cheese lasagna exactly per the instructions, and smiled upon removing it from the oven like Martha Stewart did in the picture. She smiled until she did it without thinking, baring her teeth even in bed, as she dreamed of purple pansies.

The next day, she delivered her forecast so well that even John himself gave her a flamboyant “Well done!” And Susan smiled at them as they congratulated her—but still she was not having fun.

All this power and I never get to do anything worthwhile. Susan sighed. I could fix my front lawn if only John would let me.

Later at the meeting, Susan tried to articulate her feelings.

“We could be doing so much more, John. We could be helping the needy, like those poor people of Marin County who’s front lawns have been destroyed by the California heat!”

The weather people muttered undecidedly. Susan recognized her experiences were not universal, and acted accordingly, “Or what about people affected by hurricanes! Or wildfires, droughts, what about them, John! All those poor people we could help with our power—“

“Our power is a gift, you fool!” John snapped.

Susan raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

“From Zietzebala,” said Rivers. “Our Great Mother Earth. She has gifted us with this forecasting power in exchange for our obedience as well as a few…sacrifices.”

“Ah.” Susan looked down. “And I suppose they have to be virgins too, don’t they. I’m still friends on facebook with a lot of men I went to highschool with who are probably–”

“No! Dammit, no! I meant, like, recycle. Plant a tree!” John looked exasperated. “Sometimes we sacrifice a tofurky, but we’ve never really gone farther than that.”

“Maybe we should,” muttered Rivers.

John turned sharply to look at her. “Don’t think I don’t know about that little stunt you pulled yesterday,” he said with a voice like acid. “Isolated showers? Over our studio? You know how important the schedule is–”

“I’m sorry.” Rivers said. She did not appear sorry. “It will not happen again.”

“It had better not.”

John left the room in a huff.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Susan asked “What did you mean by that?”

Rivers sighed. “I know what you mean about wanting to help. About all the good we could do. Climate change has already killed millions…and the death toll will continue to rise.”

Susan thought of her dead flowers and trembled.

“Don’t feel bad, Rivers,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

“No but it is literally our fault we control the weather Susan.“

“Oh right.”

Susan had forgotten.

Rivers began crushing the snacks in her hand. “The horrible thing is–I could fix it all. I have an incredibly detailed plan to fix the environment that, when I placed it on the alter to Zietzebala, turned into a swarm of doves! So I know she approves!”

Rivers glared. “But her pact is with John. And John has a bad heart.”

Susan nodded. “Truly a wicked man.”

“No, he literally has a bad heart. Arrhythmia.” Rivers hit twice against her chest. “I’m next in line for leadership if ever something terrible happens to him, just so you know.” She looked askance, placing her hand on Susan’s. “Do with that information what you will, Susan.”

Several things flashed through her mind at once. She saw Rivers dressed in the fanciful robes of climate cult leader. Rivers telling her how beautiful her lawn was. River’s soft, well-manicured hands holding hers, not just now, but over and over again in the future. Rivers could be more than her singular phone contact. Susan’s cheeks grew hot and she withdrew.

“Susan?”

She collected herself, pouring another class of ceremonial non-alcoholic wine. She raised it in a toast. “Here’s to hoping John drops dead!”

Rivers laughed, “Oh Susan, you’re so funny.”

Ms. Susan Kelvin squeezed her incredibly soft hand. “And when you’re head forecaster, you’ll give my district some water, won’t you? Because we are…coworkers?”

Ms. Rivers seemed confused for a half-second, then replied. “Of course! We will help everyone, which includes you!”

“But not me specifically?”

“Not you specifically, no.”

“Oh.”

Susan looked away.

Rivers offered her a soynut, but Susan refused it.

***

Next morning, Susan awoke with a start. She had a good feeling about today, that good feeling had apparently kicked her out of bed at an hour earlier than usual. What to do with the spare time?

She clapped her hands together. I know! I will go out for breakfast!

So Susan drove her little car down to her neighborhood Denny’s, avoiding all the dead beetles in the parking lot with her new high heels. She squeezed herself into a cozy booth. A nice table all to herself.

A waitress approached.

“Brown toast, and two eggs please.”

“Will that be sunny-side up, ma’am?”

“No no,” Susan turned from the window. Blue skies. With a twinge of bitterness she clarified, “I like my eggs over easy.”

“Sure thing!” The waitress jotted it down. “Sorry for assuming, most people like ‘em sunny—.”

“Well I like them over easy,” Susan said with a smile.

Susan tapped her heel as she waited, sipping some lemon water. A tingling feeling ran up her leg, like a bug was crawling. She quickly ran her hand up and down her smooth leg, but it was nothing. Nothing.

Moments later a steaming hot plate arrived. The toast was cut into triangles (the only adequate shape), but the eggs. Oh, the eggs. They were sunny. Side. UP.

Susan stormed out of the establishment without paying, and sped to her job, positively seething.

She did her broadcast as normal, except for one teensy addition as follows:

“Lastly, you’ll be seeing a horrific category five hurricane over in Marin county with wind speeds of about one hundred twenty miles an hour. It will be localized entirely within this area.” Susan pointed with her pointing stick to the map, on which she’d drawn a red circle around that one particular Denny’s.” Susan smiled. “That will be all!”

They cut to commercial break.

No one approached Susan for a full five minutes. Then John appeared, apparently having powerwalked from the adjoining broadcast room.

“Susan, what the hell–”

“It was a joke!”

John looked flabbergasted.

Susan made a silly face.

“A…joke?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Susan…you need to be really fucking careful with “jokes” when you’re on camera…You’re not in training anymore. Everything you say will happen no matter how ridiculous.”

Susan smiled slightly. That was exactly what she hoped.

John put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Look here, when the commercial ends, you are going to tell everyone that was a “joke”. You are going to tell everyone that there will be no category five hurricane at that particular Denny’s. Okay?”

“Okay, John.”

He backed away as the camera man counted down. Susan straightened her collar.

“Good evening, Citizens of Marin county. I have something to tell you all about that Category Five hurricane I mentioned earlier.”

Susan thought about reversing her decision. But why should she? That Denny’s had tried to poison her. She was doing God’s work.

She cleared her throat. “That hurricane is going to have hail. So so much hail.” John was pulling at his hair.

“And that’s not all. Susan looked directly at the camera, “Mr. John Sunday is going to die at exactly six forty-seven PM, and nothing that anyone does, not any doctor, not any ambulance, not any priest will be able to stop it.”

John Sunday ran onto the set, jumping over the rolling chairs and camera crew, reaching for her microphone.

“And the power to this station will go off NOW.”

Darkness fell. Susan tried to run, but John tackled her to the ground. He pulled the microphone from her face and shouted into it, “No! No that will not happen, actually, that will not happen. Susan is wrong!”

But the cameras were not running.

“You’re too late, John.”

John clutched his face.

“What time is it?”

It was six forty-six.

There was terror in his eyes, “That wasn’t even weather related!” he stammered. “You will be fired for this!”

“Who is going to fire me, John?”

John took out his cellphone with a shaking hand and dialed 911. Susan heard it ringing, a steady pulse in his hand. But what John really needed was a steady pulse in his heart. He fell over in agony, and Susan bent over his writhing body. She watched until it stopped. Until it returned to it’s natural state. Nonexistence. Now she was having fun. Susan took his yellow bow tie (it was a clip-on.)

She ran through the crowd of concerned onlookers, off to her car to beat the rush-hour traffic. She heard sirens in the distance, a wailing chorus. Approaching. She clutched the wheel until her knuckles turned white.

Susan saw the siren was that of an ambulance and sighed. Pity that it wouldn’t help anything. What was done was done.

That night, Susan made tea before sleeping, listening to the soft rain against her window as it cooled, with one of Martha Stewart's Living magazines resting on her lap. It was all very calming. She tucked herself into bed at exactly nine-thirty, as she did every night, and slept as she had always slept.

But in her dreams, something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong.

Susan always dreamed about being in her house, but now she was on a pedestal. On all sides of her, a dark abyss stretched down into infinity.

Instead of her carpet, the ground was teeming with worms.

Instead of the whistling of her teakettle, she heard an ominous wind, delivering muffled shrieks and cries.

Susan tapped her foot on the wormy ground. Well, this is boring! she thought.

But no sooner did her mind form that thought than the wind began to pick up.

Howling now.

And from the sky of inclement weather came a flash of blinding lightning. Susan opened her eyes and who should stand before her but...

“Martha Stewart!” Susan struggled to speak. “I am your biggest fan, I’ve—I’ve read every issue of your magazine, I read your blog—I try so hard to be just like you!”

The woman answered in a booming voice that was far too deep, “But you are not like me, Susan. You are a hollow vessel. You are a parody of human being.”

“You’re not...really Martha Stewart, are you?”

The woman bared her teeth. “I’m afraid not. I am merely taking a form that you can understand.”

Susan had a feeling she knew who it was. “Are you... Great Mother?”

“The one and only!” Zietzebala winked.

Susan looked her up and down. That dress was actually quite unfashionable now that she really looked at it. In hindsight it was obvious this was not Martha Stewart. Susan sighed soberly. Yes, not even a literal goddess can replicate such perfection.

Susan spoke to her in her usual condescending manner. “Why have you come to me like this...in a dream?”

“Isn’t it obvious why I’m here?” Not-Martha-Stewart said softly. “John Sunday is dead.”

Susan began to sweat. She adjusted her bow tie—no that was John’s bow tie, now she had drawn attention to it!

With the intention of discreteness, and complete failure of that which was intended, Susan removed the article and hurled it into the abyss. Not even a full second later, the bow tie had reappeared.

Again, Susan tossed it.

Again, it reappeared.

Again, she tossed it.

Bow tie back again!

Again, she tossed it—

“This is who you are now, Susan!” shouted Zietzebala. Crackling thunder leapt from her perfect face-framing bob-cut of yellow hair. “This is your burden.”

But the yellow of the bow tie didn’t even go with the current color palette of her outfit! Susan stood helplessly, in her persistently unfashionable clothing, staring into the eyes of this unearthly creature. And for the first time in her perfect life, Susan feared for her immortal soul.

“Great Mother, I am so sorry,” she said tearfully, “But you must let me explain myself! He was preventing me from doing my job as a forecaster, so I had to kill him. I had to!”

Not-Martha-Stewart's eyes flashed red. “Don’t take all the credit, my child. I killed him. You merely allowed me to.”

Susan stopped pretending to look upset. “Oh. So we are on the same page?”

“Not exactly.”

The Great Mother began to circle her, her high heels striking the writhing ground. “John is dead because he thought he could worship two gods at once.”

“He cheated on you?”

“With money.” Zietzebala shook her head. “John was too soft, much like the tofu he insists on sending me…He was unwilling to make the sacrifices I demand. But are you?”

The goddess was getting too close for comfort.

“That…depends…what they are?”

“I want blood, Susan.”

She had figured.

“Rivers has a two hundred page plan on how to save the environment. You are instrumental to that plan, Susan Kelvin. Because you are unlike any human I have ever known.” Her eyes glimmered like starlight. “You are…completely empty.”

Susan frowned. She felt strange. She felt used.

“I must go now–”

“Wait,” Susan stopped her. “While you’re here, can I ask you some questions about the nature of the universe? I’ve had a sudden stroke of curiosity.”

Zietzebala sighed. “Ok. I’ll give you three.”

“Objectively speaking, is the “Farmhouse style” or “Riverside cottage” style superior for a home kitchen?”

“That depends on the context, Susan.”

“Why are all the flowers in the magazines prettier than mine?”

“Because of the drought, Susan.”

She paused. Her last question…What shall it be?

After putting some thought into it, Susan decided to ask, “Is there life after death?”

Zietzebala smirked playfully. “Oh, I think you already know the answer.”

“Do I?”

“Haven't you ever thought there was a bug on your leg, and upon looking, found there was no bug?”

Susan squinted. “What of it?”

The Goddess leaned in closely. “Ghost bugs.”

Susan shuddered, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Susan grabbed onto the front of the goddess’s coat.

“Wait, I have one more question.”

“I said I’d give you three.”

“Please, just one more!” Susan demanded. “Are there other gods?”

“You already know the answer.”

Susan scoffed. “I’m…not sure that I do!”

Zietzebala turned from her, staring into the abyss. “It is time for you to wake up, Susan. Remember all that I have told you. Collaborate with Rivers. Eliminate everyone she tells you to.”

“What?”

“Be the good that Martha Stewart wants you to be–or there will be consequences!”

With that, she clapped twice and disappeared in a puff of smoke that smelled like cedar and pumpkin-scented candles.

Susan sat up from her bed abruptly and jerked her head to the side. Six o’ clock. I must get ready for work!

Susan hurriedly bread her hands, popped her soap in the toaster, ironed the carpet, and tore down Main Street. In her urgency, she went two miles above the speed limit.

Seeds of doubts sprouted worries in her mind. Do I really have what it takes to be an eco-terrorist? Susan fancied herself the very image of perfection. Was she not? She who kept her lawn so neatly trimmed? Who’s china was so neatly kept? Susan breathed rapidly. She who ravaged a Denny’s…

Destruction.

Peace.

Order.

Susan whirled into the parking lot of the recording studio, blew past everyone without a word, avoiding inquisitive eyes, avoiding accusatory fingers, planting her ass firmly in her little red rolling chair. She took a deep breath. Be the good…that Martha Stewart wants you to be.

Rivers ran up on stage, grabbed Susan’s face and kissed her passionately. Susan stumbled backwards, bracing herself against the desk. This was NOT an appropriate workplace activity. But Susan could not help herself. She returned the expression, kissing Rivers hungrily, barely noticing the notecards that had been pressed into her hand.

“We’re on in five!”

Rivers pulled away and Susan gasped for breath. “Read these exactly as they are written Susan,” Rivers said.

Susan dared not look down at the paper in her hand. What horrible dreadful things would be written on them?

Television static buzzed in her head. Someone was counting down.

The cameras trained on her.

“Now we will go live to Susan Kelvin with the weather!” The news reporter eyed Susan from her screen. “And I see you are wearing John Sunday’s signature yellow bow tie.”

Susan leaned forward slowly.

“That I am, Fiona. I have worn it to pay my respects��God rest his soul.”

“It’s kind of weird that you were able to forecast his death in such perfect detail.”

Susan paused.

“Yes well…he had a heart condition. So it was only a matter of time really.

“Of course.”

Susan exhaled deeply, and looked down.

Written on the notecards were not the names of oil barons to kill. Not golf courses to destroy. Not death, not destruction. Written on the card was simply the words “rain for everyone”

The television static grew purple.

Rain for everyone.

It was insulting.

“...Susan?”

Her eyes met Rivers. She was grinning ear to ear.

Rain for everyone.

Susan’s whole body shook as she began to deliver her forecast, “A cloud… will appear.”

The room melted away, only Rivers remained.

“Right over my house. A cloud will appear and it will rain. And it will never stop raining.”

Rivers smile twisted into a look of abject horror.

“And my pansies will respond to the rain. They will be the brightest purple. They will be the envy of all you disgusting animals.” Susan hadn’t noticed but she was screaming every word.

The ground beneath the recording studio quaked from thunder. The contract had been broken, wrath was eminent.

“I AM NOT EMPTY! I AM FULL OF PANSIES! I AM FULL OF RAIN.”

Flowers began sprouting from Susan’s ears, nose and eyes. Water poured from her mouth onto the floor. Choking on rain, Susan finished her forecast.

“And that…just about…wraps it up. Ba–ck…to you!”

A bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens, miraculously cutting through the walls of the recording studio, striking Susan. She fell from the stage. Shortly after, more bolts came and the recording studio violently burst into flames.

Forty-seven dead. Bodies near unrecognizable. Eyewitnesses said that the weather was to blame but Ms. Rivers knew that it was anything but that. Homicide. Divine intervention.

Rivers stood alone in the parking lot, charred bow tie in one hand, and in the other, a flash drive that contained the cure for the goddess of earth. The only god. “Damn you.” Her fingers closed around the yellow cloth. The weather was about to get so much worse.

But for now, rain fell in sheets from the sky above Susan Kelvin's house, with no sign of stopping. Her pansy grew taller than cornstalks, stretching upwards, garishly purple. But Susan would never see them. Susan Kelvin was gone.

Though, some say that on hot summer days when the sky is endless blue, at the back of your neighborhood Denny’s, you can feel her.

Crawling on your leg.

#This is my first short story I've posted to Tumblr!#It's like that one episode of the Fairly Oddparents but if it was more gay and political #It has lesbians and Denny's in it but I swear that was an accident I am not pandering #hope you like it #short story #short fiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writing #weather woman

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circle-of-mushrooms · 7 days ago

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Violets | Lute x F!Reader

word count: 3k

summary: its been a few months since you've joined heaven and you've taken up a volunteer role in a garden. longing for a friend, you might have just found one.

Heaven was a paradise. In a place where wanting was rare and needing was rarer, it was hard to disparage the gift of passing St Peter at the gates. Everything here was designed to keep all of its inhabitants happy and wistful, and yet . . . No one ever talks about how lonely Heaven is.

Gravel crunched beneath your shoe with each passing step, the dust lightly kicking up as you ventured further into the expansive gardens of Patience. Heaven had seven clouds, with only one notorious for its flora. If one ventured into its city, they would find - among the conurbation - a grand park within the centre. Open to the public, anyone and everyone was welcome to venture into the large fields, the greenhouses and the outdoor gardens.

Held tightly in your hand was a weighted watering can, pink with a daisy delicately painted on its side. With eternity and a half on your hands, you one day figured that you could give back to the community that was housing you and picked up the volunteer role to be one of the many angels who tended to the gardens.

Although, with each passing day, you had found yourself lacking that sense of community very often.

You had arrived in Heaven only recently, your induction had been a few months ago, and while you loved it deeply here, the angels who took to the skies were much harder to digest. All the faux smiles and saccharine words were nothing but a blatant facade to you, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to accept the lies that they were all fluent in. All you wanted were friends yet when no one seemed genuine, you were the only one turning them all down.

Kindness meant nothing to you if it was done out of obligation. You had no interest in befriending someone because they thought it gave them a merit for being a good angel. There were even times when you would wish a conversation would end quicker because you couldn’t handle hearing how censored other winners would make themselves. In fear of losing their wings, some other humans would be aghast even to hear the word damn.

Heaving a sigh, you tilted your wrist so the cool water would run through the can’s spout and trickle down to the succulents’ roots. Working in the gardens was as rewarding as it was, admittedly, boring. Arguably, it was a good way to waste time when you didn’t have much else going on. The only downside was there was who you wished to accompany you, and so you were left with the wind as your only friend, who carried your forlorn sighs away.

Once done, the gravel path guided you to one of your favourite beds in the entire garden. Upon seeing the vivid purple petals, thriving under the sun’s rays, you felt a sense of well-placed pride when you saw how well the violets were flourishing. You had been the one to nurse them from seedlings and had witnessed their growth and blossoming into the vibrant display that they were today.

The roots were the parts that needed the most attention. Watering from above would have forced the leaves and petals to absorb too much, so you crouched downward to position the watering can closer to the soil.

At least, this was all rewarding. It wasn’t as though you were in love with flowers and had a desire to be a renowned florist. Flowers were simply pretty and a testament to one’s character. If a flower could live long enough to flaunt its colours, then the one who tended to it was someone who was patient and attentive. Traits that you wished to embody.

Or else you’d be kicked out, probably. You snickered to yourself. As wonderful as this paradise was, there were undoubtedly many strict rules to keep it the idyll that it was. Besides the seraphim, whom everyone was made aware of upon entering Heaven, you weren’t all too sure who ran this tight ship. You were aware there were some Heavenly Guards, yet had no idea who they truly were.

Now and then, through the plazas and streets, you would see women donned in grey and bearing frightful masks. Brilliant as they seemed, they all walked in disciplined unison and emulated what must be a police force - even though you had never heard of crimes being committed in Heaven. Perhaps because of them?

Standing up once more, a satisfying click coming from your knees, you took another second to appreciate the fruits of your labour. Even if you had no one to share this vista with, you could never hate this job. Until the day you meet someone you deem to be honest, the flowers could be your friends.

Oh, no. That was incredibly sad. Lots in your spiralling thoughts, you hadn’t heard the heavy strides that were barrelling toward you and were none the wiser until you took a step backwards and someone’s body slammed into your own and you were knocked forward.

A loud clattering was made when the tin metal hit the floor. One second, you were standing above the violets, and now you were in them. Soil and sweetness flooded your nostrils, and while you were spared any severe pain, you were confident your knees and palms were stained from the dirt. Groaning, you quickly turned so that you were at least lying with your face pointed to the sky, your elbows keeping you propped up when the rest of your body wasn’t ready to be lifted.

“You should–”

Wait. What was that? Was someone speaking to you?

Your dazed confusion must have been plastered all over your face because soon enough, the words had been repeated.

“I said you should watch where you are going.”

The sun was positioned perfectly within your line of sight, blocking your view of anything and forcing your eyes to squint uncomfortably to fight against it. While it did nothing to help, the face of the voice became clearer when her head blocked the beaming star.

“Now, are you going to get up or what?” Platinum hair reflected under the beams of light, strands of white becoming silver and you noticed that some looked similar to a pale purple. You had to blink your eyes a few times to adjust to the new lighting, which helped you pick out the pointed look you were receiving. Bright eyes that rivalled gold were fixed on you, making you hyperaware of how you must look to the beautiful woman standing in front of you.

Yet you were dumbstruck, mindlessly unreceptive as your best response was a droning, “uuuuh.”

Unimpressed with your oh-so-verbose response, those golden pools rolled and a hand was outstretched toward you. You hadn’t thought about it twice before accepting the offer and were astounded to see someone so petite had slightly larger hands than your own. Your palms had developed a single callous or two from your tiring efforts in the gardens, but her skin was almost as rough as sandpaper, and you wondered what her story was.

You yelped when you were on your feet in seconds, almost staggering forward from the sheer force that she had pulled you with.

“Damn! You’re strong!” And immediately, you wanted to shun yourself for saying something so obvious and simple. What a shame your brain was failing to work with you today.

“Mhm.” The best you got in response was a short, agreeable hum before the pale woman began to turn her back to you. Your eyes dropped to her strong back, revealing a section between her sports bra and leggings that was not covered by her strangely dark wings. Even her halo was of a darker shade than what most angels were reborn with. Suddenly, you became hyperaware of how creepy you would seem if she caught you ogling her features and outfit - even though you thought she looked mercilessly hot.

“Keep a better look out next time.” While short, her hair still flipped behind her as she raised her arms and kicked up her knees, preparing to break off into a sprint or a job. That must have been why she crashed into you; she was on a run. “Hey! Wait!” You called out, partially extending your hand to halt her movements.

You had feared that she would ignore you, so it came as a surprise when she looked over her shoulder, her visage stoic and unamused. “What?” Both your hands planted on your hips, and you cocked an eyebrow at her. “Aren’t you going to say sorry?”

No doubt that was a foolishly bold thing for you to say, especially when this woman looked like she could eat you for breakfast and use your body weight as a warmup in the gym. Catching the definition in her arms when she turned to face you, you suddenly regretted saying anything.

“Sorry for what?” She was testing you. Her arms came to cross over her chest, and you could tell she was trying to size you up.

A wild gesture was made to your person, your dirt-caked knees, palms, and dress being the primary evidence of her crime. “Pushing me over!”

Heaven was meant to be full of kind, understanding people. Sorry was an angel’s favourite word, and you’d hear it five times a day, even more if they apologised for apologising. Yet this woman wasn’t even entertaining the idea of being in the wrong.

Huffing a half-hearted laugh, a smile finally cracked onto her lips, but the slight quirk upward revealed it to be only a smirk. “You think I pushed you over?” Canting her upper body slightly forward, she pointed toward you, a black nail digging into the soft flesh of your breast. “You were the one who stepped in my way. If anything, you should be apologising to me.” You could hear the blood rushing in your ears as the adrenaline in your body picked up. This was an argument. You hadn’t been in one in forever- At least not since you passed away, and you held no memories of your time alive. Did you even remember how to argue? “You wish!” You scoffed. “All I did was step backwards. You should have made more room when passing me. It’s not my fault you were right behind me.”

“And just who, exactly, goes backwards without looking at what’s behind them?” From the smug look on her face, this woman was under the impression that she was winning this stand-off. Oh how you would do anything to wipe that look off her face. Her very, very beautiful face.

“The kind of person who trusts that everyone else knows the meaning of personal space.” Your final quip had been the thing to erase her smirk and the two of you were locked in an intense glaring battle, neither of you willing to be the one to break it.

“Does a single apology really mean that much to you? You must be pretty sensitive.”

Her acrimonious jibe grated something inside you as the next thing that came out of your mouth was an unforgiving “fuck you.”

Both you and the woman became bewildered at what you had just said. Swearing was not unheard of, only that it was still taboo and not frequently used by the everyday angel in case of serious repercussions. You, however, had never shaken your habit of using profanities, and they would often fly off the handle when you knew no one was listening.

You began to shrink in on yourself, moving away from the other - who was only watching you with wide eyes - with trepidation. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking, and a pit formed in your stomach when the eyes narrowed. There was the dreaded feeling that she might report you to someone for being an improper winner - someone who was worthy of a punishment. You were still new and unfamiliar with all the laws of the land, so you were unsure where this would go.

“I’m so, so–” Before you could even apologise, she cut you off.

“Lute.”

A hand was extended to you. You stared at it for a few seconds before returning to her face. “What?” “My name is Lute. I’m the Lieutenant for Heaven’s Security. I’m sure you’ve seen my ladies patrolling the clouds before.” She spoke with fluid execution like she had recited this introduction a million times.

That expanse in your stomach worsened when you realised who you were speaking to. The guards you were so used to seeing were led by her. You had just insulted a high-ranking angel– You were so screwed.

“People tend to suck up to me even before they figure out who I am, and no one has the balls to stand up for themselves around here. They always try to placate each other to avoid a dispute. But you didn’t.” You couldn’t understand what she was saying. Was she lecturing you? Her tone certainly didn’t convey it. “Although, you were ready to back down just then, weren’t you?”

Unsure if you should nod or shake your head, you awkwardly attempted to do one and then the other, making you seem like you twitched weirdly. You had no idea what to say.

The hand that was never shaken by you rose upward and clapped onto your shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “Don’t. Heaven could do with a few braver faces around here. When everyone’s so sickly sweet and happy-go-lucky, it becomes,” her face scrunched into one of disgust, “nauseating.” At long last, you were pulled from your silent trance, only for you to agree enthusiastically. “Right! It’s like, no one ever says what’s actually on their mind, and you can tell they’re just being nice because they think they have to!”

Lute pulled her hand away and listened to you with intrigue. “I mean, come on, just swear a little! A ‘fuck’s not gonna kill you, right? Or- Or- Don’t pretend you like me when we just met!” Until now, you had no idea just how heated you were over this. The tirade ensued for another minute as you criticised the oversaturated pleasantries you heard daily. All the while, Lute stood there in front of you, slowly nodding her head in agreement.

“I’m glad somebody else gets it.” No longer focused on yourself, you brought your attention back to her. It was hard to tell how sincere she was when she had trained her lips always to be tightly pressed, and if eyes were the window to the soul, you think Lute had the curtains closed.

You watched as she crouched down momentarily, unsure of what she was doing. When she returned to your level, she was holding out your discarded watering can. Hurriedly, you accepted it, feeling guilty that you had forgotten about it when the property wasn’t even yours. This also reminded you that after your fall in the flowerbed, you’d likely need to tend to them all over again.

There was a second where the two of you didn’t say anything. You caught each other’s gazes, and she immediately turned her head, but you only smiled. She must be one of the secretly shy types.

“I need to go.” She may have been the one to break the silence, but it didn’t mean she wanted to. There was the slightest slip of hesitation in her voice. Even the way she tried to turn was staggered as if waiting for something else.

“You never apologised.” Lute froze. She must have not expected that as she turned to look at you with furrowed brows. “Excuse me?” She would be met with a cocky look as you continued onward. “As far as I’m concerned, you still knocked me over, and since you’re the Lieutenant, you should be setting a good example.”

Sputtering, Lute became incredulous and was in disbelief that you were still gunning for her to be the one to make amends. However, you cut in before she could say anything back. “I’ll be done with this volunteer work in about half an hour. Plenty of time to finish your run, I bet. Meet me by the front gates of the park, and let’s go to a cafe.” You looked her up and down, giving a final look of appreciation to her sportswear and the peak of her abs. “Your treat.”

Her back straightened, and the grey wings behind her looked like they were trying to flap, only to be forced against her body again. “Fine. My treat . . .”

You told her your name, and she nodded.

“And then you can make it up to me by giving me your contact details later. I could do with company like yours.” How she danced around what she truly meant was cute, and you wondered if she was reserved because of her title or something else.

“I’d be happy to be your friend, hon.”

In the sun, the abrupt gold sheen on her cheeks was easy to spot. Lute coughed into a balled fist and removed her gaze from you. “We’ll see if we make it that far.” Now met with her back, you noted how her wings were akin to a pigeon’s in both colour and markings. Although she was nothing like one, she reminded you more of a hawk, maybe. “Thirty minutes. Don’t be late.” A final word was spared over her shoulder before she resumed what must have been her exercise for the day.

Waving her off, you called out a goodbye.

With Lute gone, a thrill buzzed inside you as you clutched the fabric over your heart. All you had wanted was to make a few friends, and now you were pretty sure you had secured one who actually understood you. And as you assessed the damage to the violets - some flattened by your body - you hummed pleasantly, already imagining what the future might bring. You thought this was going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.

a/n: i have a much longer lute oneshot im 5k words deep in already, and actually has romance, but i didn't want it to be my first lute fic so i wrote a prelute to it first.

#lute #lute hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lute #lute hazbin hotel x reader #lute x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #f!reader #this is like a prologue to smth else i have cooking

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