The Wicked Wind

A cold insufferable breeze grew out of a rude shove,
a forceful gust as Hildy tramped the long dirt trail,
shoulders hunched, spine angled forth, bent in labor.
Ice-laden air knifed figurative ribbons of her clothes,
slicing through in a rampant snort of glee, maliciously
delivered. The Wind laughed with a cruel sense of spite,
glory and play, thriving on shivers, the frosty moans
that escaped blue lips while she strained and struggled
to reach a dot of warmth upon the hill — a welcoming
glow against the dark and chill of a night profane.

Drawing near, she was dismayed to glimpse a star
above the abode where nobody waited at the steep end
of her trail. The lamplight only imagined, a beacon
of hope, a ray of cheer; a mere product of wishful
anticipation. The customary emptiness greeted…
hollow victory for weathering the bite of fangs unseen.
Inside, the woman shuddered and sealed a wood door
with a grateful sigh. Another hat lost. A Nightgale left
to haunt the dusk and shake sturdy walls, unrequited;
blustering in rage, growling like a scorned wolf.

A grotesque ogre-like terror attempting to get in…
but only a fool would let it. The hut did tremble
and groan at dreadful wails, gruff boasts and threats,
cunning-edged appeals. Forlorn, frozen as her heart,
the cabin held on. A pair of desolate spirits sharing
the Eve in close huddled quarters. She kindled embers,
a comfortable radiance, feeling safe if not entirely sound.
Loneliness burned, an ache far worse than bitterness,
the teeth and claws of a storm. "I'm here!" the Wind
bellowed, rattling glass panes. "Don't ignore me!"

"Go away!" Hildy answered, half-mad with sorrow;
grief for the family members taken by illness and age,
war and fate, tempests of change or repetition. Now
was the season of the Wind: churlish, divisive, ravenous.
"But I will keep you company," a foul breath wheezed.
"You don't have my back! You would stab me in it.
Leave me alone, beast. I know exactly who you are —
and a kind word, a friendly gesture, will not ever
convince me of your noble intentions. I'd sooner
embrace a glacier than accept your frigid presence!"

"Always the cynic!" A wet smacking noise without.
"I will eat you. Never fear." That warning hovered
at a window, peering in, leering. Then a softer approach,
wily and false. "Come on. It's cold. Let me warm you."
She laughed, angry. "Liar! You would say anything, bane!
You disgust me." The Wind howled, its ego wounded.
A vain trumpet: "I am going to gobble your flesh.
Rip your tendons. Crunch your bones." The vindictive
tone shrilled: "There won't be anything left to bury!
If anyone remained to mourn." That did it.

"Nobody speaks to me that way!" Furious, Hildy
wrenched wide a closet and hauled out a gleaming
device peddled to her by a door-to-door Salesgirl —
The Cyclone Gulper Three Thousand. Wheeling out
the contraption, Hildy slung wide a rattling pummeled
door. She aimed a heavy-duty hose. Screeches rose.
The Cyclone Gulper sucked down an incredulous
Wicked Wind before the brute could huff or puff…
A maiden hummed and complacently stowed
her machine back in a closet of hats and shoes.

Barricading the portal, piling it high with a layer
of cumbrous objects, she bellowed, "Complain all
you want, I won't release you!" A dull whine
increased in volume to a shrieking maniacal protest.
The Wind would eventually admit defeat and become
a mildly petulant Houseguest — chatting, praising,
chiding. Keeping her company, waiting for her
to get home, complaining when she was late.
It wasn't the life she envisioned — and might seem
a match made in Hell. But she had no prospects.

Just her shack. And she was allergic to pets.

Lori R. Lopez is a peculiar author, poet, illustrator, and wearer of hats. Verse and stories have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies including The Sirens Call, Spectral Realms, Weirdbook, The Horror Zine, Space & Time, HWA Poetry Showcases, JOURN-E, Impspired, Aphelion, Altered Reality, Dead Harvest, and California Screamin' (Foreword Poem). Books include The Dark Mister Snark, Leery Lane, An Ill Wind Blows, The Witchhunt, The Fairy Fly, and Darkverse: The Shadow Hours (nominated for an Elgin Award). Some of Lori's poems have been nominated for Rhysling Awards. You can learn more about her at the website shared with two talented sons: https://www.fairyflyentertainment.com

Find more by Lori R. Lopez in the Author Index.