The storm rips through the tent. The tarp walls rapidly flex in and out as the wind cuts through them and lashings of rain bounce up through the gaps exposed by the turbulence. The man inside is miserable. Tired of pretending to sleep, he unzips the front door and clambers outside, his hood whipping into his face.
The rock he stands on hovers some twelve miles above the planet's tiny surface. The storms up here are actually the mildest of all the bands. Which is small comfort when his tent, without his weight, is scooped up by the wind and flies out into the dark clouds, cackling with the snaps of its fabric.
Paddy Dobson
2nd June 2021