A Florida Summer
Gibson Holub
The big guy put a lot of thought into this place, this time of year. Summer. Florida. He discussed it with his wife. He thought it through. The wife suggested lots of volcanoes spewing hot lava like vomit onto the poor civilians, but she was morbid and evil and he was a kind sort of man. He sat at the kitchen table and thought it all through. Peninsula. Deep south. Tropical. Nothing came to mind so he ate bread and potatoes. They never ate very well. Mostly homemade bread and root-type vegetables. Being the creator had nothing to do with living well. He smoked a corncob pipe on the back porch and experimented with the weather outside of their home. He made it rain hard for awhile, then took away the clouds and kept it raining, letting the sun make a bunch of rainbows all over the place. He figured that that would not work considering there must be clouds to have rain. The humans would get confused. He liked the rainbows though and continued with that sort of weather until his wife yelled from the kitchen that she would do something quite violent if he were not to stop the damned rainbows. As I said before, she was a bit darker than he in thought and deed. So he made it very dark and messed around with lightning for a bit, drawing pictures in the sky with the vivid electric flashes. His pipe ran out of weed so he pulled out some more from his ragged flannel shirt pocket and stuffed the pipe full once again.
He left the house by the front door and drifted out over the mass of land he'd been working on. There was Florida, sticking out like a penis and mocking him with no weather as of yet. For the life of him he could think of no weather pattern for that stubborn chunk of land, so he dropped down to earth and walked upon the land of Florida. It was a weatherless void.
He sat in a cafe and smoked his pipe. He thought that the pipe made him look a bit more intellectual. He talked to some humans about weather and found that humans were vulgar unintelligent beasts. Bored and depressed he wandered into a brothel in downtown Tampa and copulated with a human. It was fun and he left without paying. Outside the brothel there was still no weather and this deeply disturbed him. He made an on the spot decision to make the place a steaming pit of humidity and so mixed the summer and the state into this merciless sticky mess.
At home his wife beat the hell out of him for leaving without notifying her. He tried to explain to her about his responsibility to the humans, but she knew about his sexual encounter with the prostitute and boxed his ears until they were bloody. Afterwards they ate bread and turnips. He said grace, addressing himself, and realized that he had created something that even he couldn't understand. The poor humans, he thought, the poor humans.
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