Yes, it’s true: stunted hicks are our only fruit. They follow the yellow bric-a-brac of corn field and orchard, look to wind vanes for brain-heart direction, then tomcat home in sundry shades of redneck.
The breeze here gets so sick of us, it spits out true green cumuli, then sets that funnel cake-cloud down and spins it like a Tilt-a-Whirl all over our broke town, sprouting yard sales where none have been before …
An oak fought bravely, but died defending its plot. Surviving it are one small girl child, dog, and aunt.
What I remember seeing: the twirling gale ate the middles of things, left neat rows of rooftops for blocks and blocks. (Somewhere in all this mess is my baton.)
To the cellar! No cellar? Down a basement! No basement? Under stairs! No stairs? In a bathtub! No tub? Find a ditch! No ditch? Tag: you’re a witch!
The reason Wizard of Oz works as a film is because so few see midlands as anything but a place for flight, and even a winged grudge monkey has more social cachet than a farmer.
A weather man is an elemental wiz. As such, he can do nothing but try to predict what air already knows, then instruct you to use the dead’s shoes to find a way home.
(in Prick of the Spindle)