Below is my entry for the Fictioneers' writing prompt challenge: man versus society. Thanks to 
He felt the first bang through his feet.
The old man stood up on aching hips and looked out the window at swirls of snow engulfing a lone street light. The pane rattled under his fingers as pounding gusts intruded through a crack in the trim. Blotted white, the world outside felt unknowable, and he retracted his hand.
Turning back toward his chair, he inhaled the charred output of his overworked furnace. A slow, backwards drop onto the cushion and his hands were again piercing thread through fabric.
Under the iced window, his television chattered on in conversation with itself. Faces talked of unemployment rates and traffic times. A commercial jingled. Breasts bounced. An upcoming report the old man could barely make out, “on why war--” He paused his needle to press up the volume on his remote control. Almost enough in his envelope for a hearing aid, but for now he had this volume button.
As his fingers re-positioned the needle, a tightly dressed announcer listed a string of front-range temperatures he couldn't quite hear. The weather report blended into a long, muffled snapping sound that seemed strange, but he finished his stitch. Then, a second bang shook the floor. A shatter of air, a whooshing blast of frost, the night rushed in at him like a blitzing linebacker. Snow stung his face and he looked up to see a tree limb jutting through his window, branches still bouncing.
A cold glitter of glass and snowflakes fluttered over the rug.
Pulling himself forward, his knees thudded to the floor and his rumpled hands tried to brush pieces of glass into a sort of pile. No use. The shards caught on carpet weaves and refused to be gathered. He stood up and started for the basement.
A few minutes later, he returned with a hammer and some plywood he'd been saving for… something. He tapped the remaining sharp peaks of glass, watching them fall backwards into the snow. They landed without sound.
The old man fought the intruding branch back out into the night, then paused to breathe. Through the floorboards he felt the furnace rumble, kicking back on.
His elbow braced the plywood as thumb and forefinger pinched the nail in place. He pounded it in as the television mumbled on. “Expecting more than a foot... with fourteen shopping days left... remodel your kitchen for the holidays... her report, up next, on why war, destruction, and natural disasters...” He grabbed the remote again, but the volume was maxxed.
The button on his Kirby needed three or four presses, but finally sputtered forward with electric life. His ears missed most of the violent clacking of inhaled glass and the floor was clean after a few passes. When he pulled the plug, the machine silenced like a trailing thought. He poked his ear with a finger. Sometimes that worked.
“Now, with her report on how destruction can grow an economy.”
Could he even afford a new window? From the bookshelf, he pulled down a coffee can of folded envelopes. Under a property tax statement, he found the one marked, “Savings Fund.” Fourteen papers bills were counted, each one a crisp swipe against the one below it.
“So damn close.” The old man crumpled the envelopes back inside the can. The hearing aid would have to wait.
He tugged his chair closer to the television and sat down. “This swath of destruction is awful to see,” the reporter gestured toward downed trees. “But the silver lining, of course, is the boost this tornado will give local businesses.”
A studio suit chimed in. “Well, I think we all remember that World War II pulled us out of the Great Depression. Sometimes it takes a catastrophe.” His fellow commentators nodded.
The old man pressed his ear to the speaker.
“An event like a war can certainly stimulate demand,” one of them said, leaning forward on her commentator's stool. “Mobilization gets the money moving again, primes the pump, and you can see those employment numbers go up.”
The old man shook his head. From the shelf under his coffee can, his still uniformed son smiled out, frozen in a photograph.
He turned off the steady rain of words, dialing the knob left until it clicked. The darkened screen narrowed to a bright point of light, then black. But in the silence, he could still hear their voices pushing the old agenda of broken glass.
