Wind Farm

[ninja_cricket]

In the valley where I grew up they say we don’t know wind. We had nice summer breezes that got crisp in the fall and sometimes in the springtime the rain would come down slantways and we would sit indoors with our tea and watch the trees dance saying, “Shit, check out that wind.” or “That’s some wind out there.” But I had no idea of the ripping,

Comments

[anonymous]

Hehe, it surely wasn't exactly what I was expecting !

I really like the idea of the anti-fate Pachko. His name sounds like Sancho Pansa - Don Quichotte's servant - but he is building windmills not fighting against them. But they both fight fate, the so called "order" of things.

There's a paradox you might not have thought of yet: where does the wind destroying the windmills comes from ? Is it the one producd by the wind farm ? Is it the Moirae flapping their tapestry ? Is it an instrument of change or some pattern leading the old man to wander all around the globe, adding new patches of un-fate where the Moirae are knitting patches of fate ? Bleh !

Anyway, that's a great short story, congratulations :-)

[obstaclecourse]

Haha, you're right, I like the ending very much. I like the weirdness mixed in with the practical, like when the main character wakes up after having passed out in the snow he/she goes and runs a bath and makes a cuppa. I mean, what else do you do when something like that happens? It's the way I would write a story. Not that I could ever write anything like this, well done punkin.

[artistic_lunacy]

Wow. I loved the ending. It just ties everything together.
Not happy, not sad.
I lurve it.

And for official buisness:
I have started layout, and need an author bio.
Also, If you have that story I wrote, I would muchly appreciate it, so as to type it up, etc.
And if you feel like doing any art to go with the story... (hint hint)

Kisses

the claire st. claire and kitty cat mitch get it kwik whorehouse, now with drive thru

[neverthelessjes]

i've been rereading your entries. i feel out of touch with you.
i ran into brocoli (steve) on the metro yesterday out of nowhere. he reminded me of home.
out here, you feel the wind. the mountains aren't there to hold me in their protective embrace.
your writing is amazing, you know. i hope you are still creating, in the 8 hours of the day that you aren't busy becoming a musclehead.
today i was thiking about the days of the freaks, nerds and romantics, dancing with ourselves to a minor threat demo blaring full blast in my furnitureless living room. wassabi peas in the library. late night sewing parties. sneaking into bars underage on account of we're with the band. singing silly songs into a recorder while lying in the sun. whoopa!
dear peter pan, please take me back to neverland... i think we could both use the trip.
en decembre, je reviens. jadore ma mitchy poo.
eat my pickle, bitch!
p.s. post on the way. pigeon will be sent off within a couple days...