Further inland, the storm winds blew a rapid gale. Fences were spectators, gazing back at the land, thrust sky-bound by under-anticipated engineering scope. Eventually, the breath of the storm would expire, leaving once more the peaceful vale, from which the survivors - should there be any - would emerge. When they did, they would be the first humans to discover the strangest visions.
The failure of ropes, chains, and indeed gravity was universal and widespread. In this place, you would not the typical ephemera of a storm: trampolines, clotheslines, fence posts, sheets of roofing scattered about like a child's toys on a rug.
In this storm, those things were mere particulate matter, smashed to bits. Meat in a grinder. In din of the thereafter any one emerging from a particularly well constructed home (or perhaps a bunker) would find everything the storm whispered to. It wouldn't make any sense, littering the countryside like with debris that shouldn't be found together like a dish of puttanesca at the end of a busy Italian night.
An outhouse crushed by landing in a canyon. A canyon that wasn't there before. It was carved out by the zephyrs that moved throughout the landscape. A structure had collapsed around the canyon, the retaining wall smashed to pieces but unseen impacts.
A motorbike tossed atop a roof. One of the very few undamaged ones, that is. Bicycles entangled into an orb of twisted material. Gravestones uprooted and shuffled about like the dead had risen and played a brief game of musical chairs. Maybe they had danced a secret midnight ball. Many had joined their ranks through the storm.
It appeared to have no need for an end. It was cataclysmic, unfathomable and unrelenting in its path.
New energy still ripped through the sky - vicious clouds whirled, moving silos like the pawns of a chessboard across the chequered fields. Fields that were soon cleared by secondary gusts, leaving the silos that once glittered in the sunlight to become covered in dust, dirt, seed, and impending rot.
This storm was not to the be last, but its scale would be one that would be unmatched. She continued her watch.
Author's Note:
This was a response to the prompt "scale", and extends on my recent writing Consequence / Progress in a way that felt somewhat natural to me in that very same room where I started writing previously.
This is a slightly extended version of what I wrote in the allocated fifteen minutes. I need to write more from the top of my head as opposed to trying to craft something absolutely and utterly profound, as I have a bad habit of it.
Props to 