by JT Gill
"Catherine," Father says, leaning against the machine. "Do you remember when we could turn off the rain?"
I step around beside him, careful not to tread on the headstone at my feet. The leaves of the beech tree are all a-patter overhead, the sky a swirling mass of dark grey clouds.
"Yes," I say, staring across the fields at the Rainmaker, its antennae--bent slightly out of shape--towering above the cornstalks in the distance.
Every day, Father and I work together under the beech tree, next to Mother's grave, to build the Stormbreaker--the machine that will end the storm.
"I miss her," he says.
"We should get back to work," I say, eyeing the heavens.
I remember the day Father finished the Rainmaker.
Mother and I stood close by, staring at the contraption with the bulbed antennae. Father ripped the cord and the exhaust vents coughed blue smoke. I started. Mother put a hand on my shoulder.
"Shouldn't take long," Father said, shouting over the ensuing hum as he adjusted the dials.
It wasn't two hours before the rain began to fall, as if Elijah had asked it of God Himself.
My parents kissed each other in the downpour, and the corn whispered its appreciation.
Eventually, we destroyed the Rainmaker. After what happened with Mother. Ripped the cords from their plugs, burned the generator, and bent that wicked antennae ourselves.
But the storm didn't falter.