The clouds are back, rumbling like troubled schoolkids, their pockets packing blades and matches. You don’’t want to venture out, twitching the curtains and assessing risks which rise each time you look. Experts on the TV blame rising temperatures, rising prices, and/or rising tensions in previously peaceful corners of the melting world, but you can’t escape the feeling that it’s some kind of experiment that’s slipped the leash, that there’s a shockheaded Frankenstein laughing in his lab as he exemplifies the theory of moral sentiments through animated condensation. And even as you ponder this distinct possibility, the clouds are in the garden, flattening the flowerbeds, pissing up the shed, and frightening the cat. There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand, says a cumulonimbus, reading aloud from a wet paperback. You know in the pit of its gut how it feels, but you’re still not going to open the door.
Bio: Oz Hardwick
