April 17th, 2017

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“Bingham Clayson looked out his kitchen window down into the two-block bottle neck of North Butte, at the south end of San Miguel Lake, where it was downsized by a small earthen dam and then renamed Rattlesnake Creek before it fled zigzagging and downhill like too many of the town’s young:
“The rain fell in frigid pellets; the water darts were like radioactive debris piercing the protective clothing of any one foolish enough to be outside.  The searing dampness penetrated to the bone, and beyond.  Some old men felt old war wounds.  Some old women felt the old wounds that some old men had inflicted upon them.  It was the kind of day locals took pride in -- a statement of a life that separated North Butte from softer places.
“The town was encircled by granite spires, some already besotted by snow, and swarms of giant pines, cedar, and fir.  Uneven clusters of rain splatters bombarded the lake top at miraculous angles as white-capped swells churned across the gray water.  A west wind howled into the village scouring the streets and walls and rooftops with acid rain from the cities in the valley and on the coast.  The church spire, glistening in the gloom, rose with its white prow penetrating the downpour like God’s ship of war steaming its way towards heaven.”  - from North Butte, a short story by Kevin O’Kendley
 
 
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