Visible Wear

Come closer dear reader, do listen in,
The Visible Wear Christmas is about to begin.
The holidays are upon us, the new year is nigh,
Spirits, stress, and spending are at an all time high.

But this party is free to all who attend,
To all who should show, welcome my friend.
To regulars, to first-timers, to the whole blogosphere,
To all you good people, have holiday cheer.

To KFarmer, caretaker with a beautiful soul,
For many a life you’ve played a valuable role.
To cmhl, mother of things,
Some settle to the chaos, I hope this time brings.

To Suldog of Boston, the man with the voice,
And to your dear wife, your greatest of joys.
To Stu from next door, proud stay at home dad,
Such a good father few have ever had.

To Bean from down under, with tales that delight,
With vivid descriptions your stories take flight.
To Willowtree the whimsical, also from there,
Your two pudgy dogs I still wish you’d share.

To Magazine Man, savior of Blaze,
Your family, life, and writing always amaze.
To Sharfa, one of the strongest I know,
May the light inside of you continue to grow.

To Peter DeWolf, Lauren Graham junkie,
The best friend ever to the ACN and the monkey.
To Greg Scratchley and Lin, your journey you’ve penned,
May your hearts swell with pride of your handsome son Ben.

To Kortren, fan of Wellington, with knowledge profound,
Your comments enlighten and always astound.
To Rakie, fellow zombie, and happy dance queen,
The most lively Nilla I ever have seen.

To Sushi the Mermaid, sieze all of your days,
Ignore all the jackasses and all of their brays.
To Ree, cowgirl transplant with an amazing eye,
Your stories, burps, and photos have me slapping my thigh.

To Robin of Pensieve, your blog topics abound,
From one to another it’s a fun trip all around.
To Serra, fine blogger and maker of soap,
Your FOAD Thursday list I’ll never make, I hope.

To Heza, Floridian, now a Deutschlander,
Your stories abroad make my world view much grander.
To Cindra, the prolific, such a blogger is rare,
One of these days I’ll make your contest, I swear!

To Jill, wandering playwright, with shiny new muse,
Your whimsy and wanderlust, may you never, ever lose.
To Janet, the bringer of Georgian tales,
For captivating entries your blog never fails.

To Jonathan Shaw, the man with the plan,
Your present is busy but your future will be grand.
To Heather of Pixelscribbles, anime girl,
The world is your oyster, may Nippon be your pearl.

To Kelly, with yoga, coffee, and Outlook,
Your heart’s full of fire, so get out there and cook!
And to SA, fellow weekly story weaver,
Keep writing those tales now, you’ve got the fever.

And to any I’ve forgotten, happy holidays to you all,
I wish you well-being and a hearty gift haul.
Now to borrow a phrase of holiday delight,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

 

 A Visible Wear Christmas [2:51m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

There will be no entry for this week as I’ve been working on a big Christmas post. Hope you’re all having a minimally stressful holiday season and come back next week for a special holiday post.

“What’s the word on Mr. Moody this morning, Fritz?” Mackenzie Kensington, a bright-eyed old man with sparse tufts of white hair crowning his head like passing clouds, asked his young assistant.

“Looks to be heading towards stormy, Mr. Kensington.” Fritz answered, knees bent so as to be eye-level with the barometer.

“Damn it, boy, why do you insist on being the only person in this whole town who calls me Mr. Kensington. Call me “Mac” like I keep telling you.”

Fritz smiled sheepishly and shrugged, hands deep in the pockets of his coveralls. Reading out the forecast on Mr. Moody and getting Mac riled up by calling him by his last name had both become ritual for Fritz since becoming Mac’s apprentice two years ago.

“Shall I light the signal, sir?” Fritz asked Mac.

“Yeah, light the signal and get to closing the shutters up there. I knew today was going to be a stormy day, I could feel it in my joints. My left elbow worst of all. Judging by the ache in there it’s going to be a big one too.”

“Do you know what’s behind the bad weather today, Mac?”

“Can’t say I do, son, but I expect we’ll be hearing about it soon enough. You know how word travels about this little town of ours.”

Fritz recalled the last big storm that had hit as he ran up the stairs to light the storm signal. It was three months into his apprenticeship, his first major storm since taking the job with Mac, and he learned quickly why they had a job monitoring barometrics in relation to Mr. Moody. Mr. Moody, as Fritz had come to learn, had a certain ability to influence the weather. The word “influence” meaning that Mr. Moody couldn’t control the weather much as one would control his pen on paper, but rather that the skies outside reflected whatever mood he was in. The irony of this was not lost on Mr. Moody either.

He recalled that not five minutes after the signal was lit the lobby of the observation center was filled with fifty people passing hearsay about what had brought the torrent their way. The mayor himself was there spreading nonsense about it having something to do a poor crop of radishes. It wasn’t until later that evening that the facts came to be known.

The storm had nothing to do with bad crops but rather a woman named Dusty Runner. She was the catalyst for the last time it rained and thundered nonstop for eight days. Quite a few of the rumors the townsfolk were spreading did involve a woman, but none were even close to accurate in their portrayal of her involvement. Dusty had sparked the storm because she had mistakenly mailed Mr. Moody a dead skunk intended for her ex-husband one zipcode over.

On opening the mysterious and tightly sealed parcel Mr. Moody found himself contending with the worst odor his nose had ever confronted and the townfolk found themselves contending with dark churning skies. The needle on the barometer nose-dived to indicate the coming storm and Fritz barely had the signal light going before the first drops of many hit the ground outside.

The town took a lot of damage in the course of that storm. Fences washed away, crops drowned, and plenty of roofs were damaged. Old widow Parker’s house found itself relocated to the other side of town, minus her spare bedroom/knitting room. Of course, all she cared was that her cats Darling and Potter were fine, though the house floating through town did nothing for their inherent fear of water.

There was talk after that incident to drive Mr. Moody out of town but in the end nothing came of it. Everybody knew that without Mr. Moody’s occasional short-lived bout of depression their crops would wither and the streams around town would die. The town was technically on desert land, after all, and by no means the sort of place a farming community should be found. But they had Mr. Moody, and Mr. Moody made those sorts of things possible.

This time around both Fritz and Mac actually had a good idea as to what was behind Mr. Moody’s dark skies and once again it was spelled Dusty Runner. After eight days had passed following the last incident, Dusty had come to realize her mistake. She met with Mr. Moody to apologize and wound up taking a liking to him. She and Mr. Moody started courting shortly after and got married six months later.

Things had been calm for the most part since their meeting, a few jitters of the pressure needle here and there but nothing noteworthy. The last significant jump occured when Dusty and Mr. Moody’s daughter Passion was born just two months ago.

But good things oftentimes don’t last, and family life can be a tremendous strain on some people, so both Fritz and Mac had it figured that the new baby had put a damper on things between the happy couple and the dark clouds now visible were a sign of that.

Fritz closed the last of the upstairs shutters, the wind blowing rain in his face, and checked once more to make sure the storm signal remained lit. From the top of the stair landing he heard the front door of the building open and headed down to see who it was. To Fritz’s surprise, the visitor was none other than Mr. Moody himself. To his further surprise, Mr. Moody was wearing the biggest, goofiest grin Fritz had ever in his life seen and hadn’t a touch of sadness or anger about him.

“Mr. Moody, but if you’re not behind the storm, then who?” Fritz stammered.

“Well, you see young man, I suppose I should’ve expected it, or maybe just anticipated it, well certainly considered it, but it turns out, oddly enough, ironically even, that Passion’s got the gift too. Like father, like daughter, it seems.”