short fiction · 2026-10-24

Meteorology of Metaphor

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

A cold front of irony sweeps in from the north, displacing the warm, moist air of sincerity. Thunderheads of hyperbole build along the boundary, anvil tops spreading into the stratosphere where literal meaning freezes into hail. The barometer drops. Somewhere, a simile forms like fog in a valley — "grief is a fog" — and settles, obscuring the ridge lines of plain speech. By afternoon, a low-pressure system of mixed metaphor stalls over the coast: "weather the storm of emotions," "climate of opinion," "front of progress." The isobars pack tight. Wind shear tears the tenor from the vehicle. At sunset, virga falls — precipitation that evaporates before reaching ground — words that mean nothing by the time they land. The radar shows nothing. But the air smells like rain.