The Storm | A short story by Albert Williams

HMS Egmont, when dismasted on 11 October near the Island of St Lucia – 1780 (Wikipedia)

Roddy Bane shakes his head as the weatherman

announces that a hurricane watch is in effect for the

islands. His wife Sheila-Anne is seated on a settee across

the room; his sixteen year old daughter, as beautiful as a

morning sun, is standing by the front door. Mr. Bane is

absentmindedly twirling a glass filled with rum.

“Can’t he find something proper to tell people?” he

mutters. “Good Lord, I’ve lived all my life here and no

hurricane ever…”

“Aw, won’t you hush up!” interrupts his wife who is

trying to make sense out of the weatherman’s


“This is serious you know, they say this is a dangerous

storm,” she adds making a gesture with her hands to

silence him

“A dangerous storm…Bah” retorts Mr. Bane.

“Nothing but a little…”

“Well listen nuh,” chides Sheila-Anne, her eyes glued

to the TV set as the man on the television points out the

current coordinates.

“I wonder what’s it like to go through a hurricane,”

says Tarah, almost to herself, flicking a handful of her

dark-brown tresses over her right shoulder as she peers

out into the fading light.

“Not a very nice thing,” responds her mother, who

saunters towards the front door where Tarah is standing.

“I can remember my mother telling me that in 1935 a bad

hurricane hit Dominica and plenty people did get killed,”

she says nodding her head sagely.

“All this meteorological stuff……Bah!” interjects Mr.

Bane. “Never heard anyone talk about a hurricane in…”

he leans back into his favourite armchair frowning.

“Papa God, make this storm pass us,” utters Sheila-

Anne as she quickly makes the sign of the cross.

“All you not hearing,” ejaculates Roddy. “All you and

dat TV is two of a kind, I wish dat hurricane would come

for true and let me hear you talk bout storm coming.

“Roddy!” exclaims Mrs. Bane, her teeth clenched and

eyes glowering. “How can you say dat?” she spurts

Mr. Bane doesn’t reply, instead he leans forward

reaching for the centre table where the bottle of D-Special

rum, newly opened, is standing. He tops his glass with

some more of the stuff. Without much of a thought he

dumps the contents into his mouth, swirls it around, then

swallows with a gulp. The stinging beverage makes his

eyes twinkle with redness, as his face contorts with a

hideous grimace. He coughs.