滑不溜秋的胡闹，以及其它天气罪行（Slippery Nonsense and Other Atmospheric Crimes）
翻译小说
命题作文：写一篇关于“天气突变的故事”。
据说，英国人每天至少抱怨天气三次。
我个人认为，这是近乎诽谤的低估。
我抱怨天气，就和其他人喝水一样：持续不断地，不由自主地，还带着一点若有若无的道德责任感。
这是我最精湛的技艺之一，几乎是一种使命。
太热、太冷；风太大、风不够大。
毛毛细雨很无礼，乌云罩顶很傲慢，霜冻则一副看谁都不顺眼的样子。
有人抱怨天气只是为了消遣。我的抱怨，就像是天气欠了我的钱。
直到上周二，我都以为这没什么大不了的。
一种性格怪癖。
一种应对机制。
一种英国式的休闲方式，伴随着强烈的生存和嘲讽本能。
要不是那天早上，我的雨伞差点咬了我一口，我才意识到，老天已经跟我结下了仇。
雨伞造反
先要申明，我不是说，雨伞长了嘴巴什么的。
我的雨伞，这件旨在困境中保持忠诚的物件，却猛地合拢夹住了我的手指。仿佛它是受雇来刺杀我似的。
我惊叫一声，把它扔在了地上。一阵狂风立刻把它吹落到人行道上，活像个终于辞职成功的刺头，报复性地一路翻滚而去。
我怒视天空。
“哦。看来，你今天是这个德行啊。”我说。
一束阳光短暂地照射在那把被丢弃的雨伞上，就像犯罪剧里一个倒地的士兵。
依我这个抱怨专业户的判断，天空正在冲我坏笑。
怀有被遗弃情结的雾
起初，我以为这只是正常的雾。像是那种笼罩着田野，正在为一部古装戏试镜的普通雾气。
不过，并非如此。
这雾……似乎另有图谋。
它不四处飘。
它不随便晃。
它跟着我。
一团紧密的，三英尺宽的雾团紧紧地贴在我肩膀的后面，就像是一个焦虑的实习生，不敢问厕所在哪儿。
我加快脚步。
它也跟得更快。
我停下来。
它轻轻地撞了一下我的背。然后，带着歉意地悬浮在那里。
“我不喜欢黏人的天气。”我告诉它。
雾团缓缓靠近。
“我是认真的。”我嘘声说道，“我甚至受不了黏人的人，哪怕是靠近我的人。”
雾气颤抖着。只能用“受伤”来形容它的情绪。
等我走到乐购便利店时，那雾气已经变成一种我只能称之为“依附物”的东西。
它紧紧贴着自动门，试图渗透进去。
当雾气一次又一次地用它那并不存在的脸撞击玻璃时，感应灯困惑地闪烁着。
“待着。”我坚定地对它说，“你不需要进来买盒饭。”
它悲伤地颤动着。
走进便利店，经理狐疑地看着我。
“那……是跟你一起的吗？”她问，一边朝贴在玻璃上的雾气点点头。那雾气仿佛正在试镜，想竞选我的情绪支持水汽。
“不是。”我大声说。声音大到雾气都能听见。
雾气软瘫在玻璃上。
当我离开便利店时，它立刻精神起来。像一只崇拜主人，毫无边界感的天气宠物，在我的脚踝周围打转。
“最后再说一遍。”我边说边退，“我不是你妈。”
它还是跟着我。
一阵低沉的隆隆声滚过天空。就像云朵在天气系统未经允许就收养了某个凡人时，发出的那种类似父母的恼怒叹息。
“别看我。”我猛地抬起头，“是你，把它弄得这么感性。”
雾气紧紧地包裹着我的小腿，像是一个沾黏的潮湿拥抱。
太棒了。
我一不小心被降水认作妈了。
冰雹，对我有私人恩怨
冰雹在周三降临。仿佛天气意识到，光靠情绪恐吓还不够。
不是普通的冰雹。
也不是那种规整的球形冰雹。
而是那种长着尖刺，专门夺人性命的匕首型冰雹。
迷你的冰冻武器像锤子一样敲打着我的兜帽、我的肩膀，还有我的耐心。
“来真的吗？”我对着天空大叫，“这也太具有攻击性了。”
一颗完美的小冰箭击中我的太阳穴，又弹到我的掌心。然后，沿着我掌上的生命线慢慢融化。仿佛在给它的威胁划重点。
“为什么你这么恨我？”我低声问道。
又一颗冰雹正中我的后脑勺。我把它当作了答案。
不肯放过我的阳光
阳光，通常都躲着我。而我，白得像个维多利亚时代死于某种文艺病症的幽灵，向来对它敬而远之。
但那天呢？
它如影随形地跟着我。
一束金色的阳光照着我，只照着我。它跟着我，照到了：
-人行道
-公交车站
-面包店的货架区（太过分了）
-牙医诊所的候诊室（这至少违反了三套道德体系）
一个蹒跚学步的孩子指着我说：“妈妈，那个人在发光。”
那束阳光得意地增亮了几分。
我向左迈了一步。那束阳光也向左迈了一步。
我躲到一棵树下。阳光照进枝叶间，像一支打定主意要找到我的手电筒。
“哦。你到底要选哪种人设？”我厉声说道，“要么无视我，要么盯梢我。但你不可能一周之内两者都做。”
那束阳光温暖地照在我脸上。我只能将其解读为“欠揍”。
压垮骆驼的最后一根稻草
第二天下午，我被抢劫了。
我真希望，那是夸大其词。
我刚买了一盒金光灿灿、热气腾腾的炸薯条——酥脆、咸香，完美无瑕。那种好吃到能让你短暂相信神灵存在的薯条。
我拿起第一根。
只是一根。
就在这时，一阵狂风袭来。
一股突如其来、蓄势待发的强风从地底下爆冲出来，精准无比。仿佛是整个气象系统精心谋划的一项任务。
我的胳膊猛地一抖。
薯条盒翻转过来，做了个完美的双空翻。非常优雅，优雅得近乎侮辱。最后，以洋洋得意的小旋转作结。
薯条飞向空中，犹如把整个合唱团送上天堂。
然后，我注意到了它们。
鸽子。
大约有十七只。不过，它们编队飞行的姿态，仿佛在表明某种长着羽毛的群体意识。它们围成一个松散的半圆，抬头仰望。眼神中带着静默、虔诚的渴望。如同罗马观众等待角斗士的血腥争斗。
纷飞的薯条开始降落。
寂静笼罩着鸽群，这种寂静通常只有在皇家婚礼，或是看见面包时才会出现。
十七只鸽子齐刷刷地倒吸了一口冷气。
然后，它们俯冲下来。
场面一片混乱。
翅膀扑扇。
羽毛飞舞。
两只鸽子为了争抢一根薯条，在空中给对方来了一个过背摔。
一只体型特别圆润的鸽子使出了一个堪称战术翻滚的绝技，成功抢到了一根正在掉落的薯条。
另一只鸽子得意洋洋地停在我的鞋子上，嘴里叼着一根薯条，宛如捧着一个奖杯，直勾勾地盯着我。仿佛在说：
“我赢了。是你，让我赢的。”
我只能看着。无能为力，薯条尽失，惨遭背叛。
“……为什么？”我对着天空低语，“为什么是我？”
第二阵狂风像湿毛巾一样狠狠地抽在我脸上。
仿佛在说，因为这很好笑。
我内心深处有什么东西破碎了。
“这太过分了！”我冲着天空大喊，“绝对太过分了。它们是我的。它们还是热乎乎的。它们是希望的象征。”
雷声隆隆——那种隆隆声就像是有人竭力想憋住不笑一样。
“哦。那就继续吧！”我喊道，“尽情享受吧。顺便再毁掉点别的东西。”
云朵翻腾，带着恶作剧的意味。
风像个找到了新爱好的恶霸那样在我身边盘旋。
下方，鸽子继续着它们的觅食狂潮。
一只鸽子嘴里叼着两根薯条，趾高气昂地走过。活像个叼着雪茄的街头小混混。
另一只试图飞走。但实在是吃得太饱了，才离地六英寸就彻底放弃了。
第三只鸽子摇摇摆摆地降落在掉落在地的薯条盒上，一屁股坐下，仿佛在宣示它的主权。
风吹过我的外套，淅淅作响。那感觉简直就像在为我鼓掌。
我站在那里，浑身湿透，饥肠辘辘。周围是得意洋洋的鸽子和来自上天的嘲讽。
毫无疑问，这是压垮骆驼的最后一根稻草。
回到公寓，我怒火中烧。为了那些炸薯条，我如丧考妣。
所以，就在我打开前门时，一滴雨水正好落在我的额头上，我彻底崩溃了。
一朵专门针对我的雨云正悬在我的头上。意料之中。
“够了！”我喊道。钥匙掉在了地上。“你们到底想从我这儿得到什么？”
雨停了。
路灯闪烁了一下。
风也屏住了呼吸。
然后，就像打印机在截稿日前必然会卡纸那样，一个声音在我身后响起。
“够了。”那声音说。
绩效考核
站在我家门廊灯光下的那个人，看起来像刚跟狂风吵过一架，又跟文件柜吵过一架，而且两边他都输了。
他的西装是湿的，头发也是湿的。更潮湿的是他的表情。那表情说明，早在巨石阵刚安装好的那时候起，他的耐心就已消耗殆尽。
他亮出了一枚工牌。
气象运作部，神务司——神职等级：初级。
他叹了口气。那架势仿佛是我亲手导致了他的落魄。
“好吧。”他说，“你那些小小的差评里，到底是哪一条让我彻底崩溃的？”
“我什么？”
他“啪”地一声打开了一个滴着水的文件夹。
“你一直在抱怨。”他说，“通常我都忍了。真的，我忍了。我是个宽容的神。我曾经应付过整整一个世纪的水手，听他们对着逆风破口大骂。”
他夸张地翻过一页。
“而你呢？简直是没完没了。”
他用手指戳了戳那份湿透的档案。
“周二：‘这毛毛雨感觉像是冲我来的。’
“周三：‘这风是谁批准的？’
“周四早上：‘要是太阳可以别那么一副洋洋得意的样子，哪怕只停个十分钟……’”
他模仿了我的声音。模仿得很烂。
我结结巴巴地说：“我、我不是字面上的意思……”
“噢。我知道。”他没好气地说，“但，其他那些神，却不知道啊。”
他用力合上文件夹，发出一声轻微的雷鸣。
“你知道，我遭遇了什么样的处境吗？”他质问道。
“我，不知道。”
“你当然不知道！”他一边说，一边气呼呼地绕着一个小圈来回转。“你知不知道当个气象之神是什么滋味？你知不知道？”
我摇了摇头。
“那简直是种羞辱。”他咬牙切齿地说。
“别的神都掌管着光鲜亮丽的领域。战争、爱情、死亡、命运。而我呢？得到的是……”
他向天空挥了挥手。
“水分派送。”
在他身后，一朵小云彩同情地垂下了身子。
“战争之神每隔一千年才来我办公室一趟，专门为了嘲笑我。”他愤愤不平地说，“爱情女神管我叫‘滴水先生’。农业诸神只有在想求我办事时，才会跟我说话。至于海神，就别提了。那个靠潮汐吃饭的欠揍混蛋。”
他凑近身子。
“所以，当你把自己的整个凡人生涯都花在吐槽我的工作时，你知道那听起来像什么吗？”
我又摇了摇头。
“就像是在给我盖章。”他板着脸说，“坐实我确实不擅长这份工作。”
“我从没那样说过……”
“你暗示过。”他厉声说，“而在神界，这更加恶劣。从根本上说，凡人的抱怨就是一种‘绩效反馈’。”
“天哪。”
“我就是神。”他怒吼道。他被激怒了。
这话没错。
“你知道，在上次的神界运作会议上，其他神是怎么说的吗？”
他的声音低沉下来，像是受了委屈时的喃语。
“他们说，我连一个凡人都没法哄开心。一个都没有。”
他指着我，仿佛这一切全都是我的错。
“说真的，”他的声音有点发颤，“他们说得没错。”
一阵尴尬的小旋风在他的脚边打转。
与管理层谈判
我们就那样站着。我站在门道里，手里攥着湿漉漉的钥匙。他站在门口，浑身滴着水，把神的怨气滴在了我的门垫上。
“听着。”我说，“我相信，你的工作能力其实没问题。”
他眯着眼睛看我。那神情仿佛我刚才说的，是建议将冰雹作为用户勾选项目。
“别摆出一副居高临下的姿态。”他说，“你知道，我一天要应付多少个暴风雨系统吗？又又多少个局部气候？你知道，人们对着天气预报的应用程式大吼大叫的频率有多高吗？这些怨气最后全都会冲着我来。”
他用力锤了锤胸口。远处传来一阵隐约的雷声，仿佛在呼应他的动作。
“你对着五天的气象预报大喊大叫，好像预报冒犯了你的祖宗似的。然后，你跑到室外，又冲着天空同样吼叫一通。这就像是在给一群疯子做客服一样。”
“我不知道你能听见那些。”我嘟囔道。
他盯着我。
我清了清嗓子。
“那么，呃。现在怎么办？你……训斥了我一顿。你是打算惩戒我吗？专门给我来场冰雹，还是把我的衣柜里全部都换成运动服？”
他拉下了脸。
“惩戒你？就因为抱怨？”他嗤之以鼻，“得了吧。那我还得惩戒整个国家呢。再说，人力资源部说我‘反应过度’。”
他调整了一下领带。领带发出挤水的“噗叽”声音。
“不。”他说，“我们要……统一一下预期。”
这话后面通常都没什么好事。
他打了个响指。一块写字板凭空出现——同样湿漉漉的——上面印着一份表格，标题写着：
凡人/天气服务等级协议
（试点方案-请勿复制到其它地区）
他把写字板连同一支滴水的笔一起递给了我。
“第一条，”他说，“你每个月对天气的抱怨不得超过三次。”
“一个月三次？”我惊叫道，“这点次数连今天都不够用啊。”
“允许结转到下个月。”他说，“但不许日期回溯。我可不会重新计算过去十年里你的情绪气候。”
“简直不可思议。”
“第二条，”他继续说道，“你不得再将恶意归咎于特定的天气现象。毛毛雨不是在‘故意找茬’；霜冻并不带有‘阶级偏见’；雾气也不是‘胆小的水蒸气’。”
我张大了嘴。
“别说‘湿度是心机婊’。”他警告道，“他能听见。”
我脚边的空气顿时心虚地浓稠了几分。
“第三条，”他接着说，“所有向天空提出的反问句都将被视为无效请求。不许再问‘你还想怎样？’也不许再问‘这就是你的全部本事吗？’闪电会把这些话理解为直接指令。闪电不该被赋予这种权力。”
“这条还算合理。”我承认。
“第四条，不许嚷嚷着要‘像样的雪’。结果雪真来了又抱怨个不停。”
“那只发生过一次。”
“两次。”他说，“而且，当时你管那叫‘滑不溜秋的胡闹’。”
“本来就是！”
我们对视片刻。雨点轻柔地落在四周，听起来像是礼貌的掌声。
“好吧。”我终于开口，“我会签下你那份神圣的协议。但我也有个条件。”
他抱起双臂：“说吧。”
“别再把这些事看得那么个人化了。”我说，“我的抱怨不是针对你。而是针对……其他所有事情，只不过披着雨的外衣罢了。”
他皱起眉头。
“这话毫无道理。”他说。
“这话很有道理。”我反驳道，“冲着风大喊大叫，总比冲着，比如说，资本主义，或者我自己的生活选择大喊大叫要容易得多。怪罪你……很安全。”
他眨了几下眼睛。雨水从睫毛上滴落下来。
“所以，你把我的整个全球系统，”他缓缓说道，“当成了练习发泄情绪用的靶场？”
“……算是吧？”
他抬头望云，又转头看我。随即发出一声短促而尖锐的大笑，吓到了最近的一根路灯柱。
“果然如此。”他喃喃道，“果然如此。战争得到献身，爱情得到绝望，而我得到的却是……被转嫁过来的倦怠。”
他揉了揉额头。
“好吧。”他叹了口气， “就那样。我会……尽量不去把对着阴沉天空发出的每一声叹息都解读为对我能力的个人评价。”
“我要求的不过如此。”我说，“哦，对了。还有就是，那种致命的冰雹不要那么有针对性。”
他抬头看了一眼。
云层心虚地移动了一下。
“我们会……重新审核冰雹配额。”他说。
他再次递过那支笔。
“签个字？”
我画符般地在那条湿漉漉的横线上签了名。墨水在纸上晕开，流淌，在干燥之前微微发光。
随着轻微的“噗”的一声，写字板消失了。
天空落幕
天气之神直起身子。水珠顺着袖口滴落。
“好吧。”他说，“我得先去理顺威尔士上空乱成一团的暴风雨锋面。西班牙那边还有一场热浪正在惊恐发作。少点抱怨。我也会尽量少出错。或许，我们能找到折中的办法。”
“阴天，气温适中？”我建议。
他嘴角抽动了一下。
“那可是我的得意之作。”他说。
他退后一步。身影模糊，体形轮廓渐渐消散在雾气中。
“哦。”他补了一句，身体半隐半现。“还有。关于阳光那事，你说得没错。她确实很欠揍。”他悄声说，“别告诉她是我说的。”
“我知道。”
然后，他就不见了。
门廊的灯光稳定下来。
雨又下了起来。而我头一次觉得，它并没有什么特别的企图。
天气，之后
我又站在那里，听着雨水轻柔地落在人行道上。
没有冰雹。
没有阳光的集束照射。
没有雾把自己的情感问题贴上玻璃。
只有……天气。
一阵微风拂过我的脸颊。凉凉的，小心翼翼地。
“好吧。”我轻声说，“休战。”
微风掀起我的头发。我选择将其解读为“道歉”。
一滴雨水“啪嗒”一声落在我面前的台阶中央。大得离谱，而且极具表演性。如同一个最后的感叹号。
我指着天空。
“这不算抱怨。”我警告说，“我只是说说而已。”
云朵飘动着，不置可否。
我走进屋里，把那把造反的雨伞挂起来晾干。然后，烧了壶水。
室外，天气继续着它那古怪的、复杂的、劳碌命的小小存在。
我第一次觉得，天气并不是专门来找我麻烦的。
我也第一次决定，不再去把天气放在心上。
看来，进步是循序渐进的。
（完）
作者：[英国]米歇尔•詹姆斯（Michelle James）2025年12月11日发布于瑞德西网站（Reedsy.com）
译者：鸭绒2026年6月18日完成于洛杉矶（Los Angeles）
译者注：
这是一篇引起争议的小说。争议的焦点不是小说本身，而是谁写的。虽然，它通过了瑞德西网站的每周小说竞选获奖评审，但网评却认为这不是原创，而是由人工智能代笔的AI小说。顺便说一句。作者是以英式英语为母语的英国人。而说她用AI写作的基本上都是以美式英语为母语的美国科技理工男。
这个争议并不会对译者造成困扰。翻译，关注的是文字转介，不关注作者身份。注明这点，只是想提醒读者，在品味该小说的“胡闹（Nonsense）”语境时，不必刻意去分辨它“像不像AI”，而是问一下自己，它“有没有人类的审美选择”。
译者认为，这是篇具有非常英式幽默审美情趣的英文小说。翻译难度不在语言本身，而在那个“Slippery Nonsense（滑不溜秋的胡闹）”的审美意境。
Slippery Nonsense and Other Atmospheric Crimes
By Michelle James（UK）
Written in response to: "Write a story in which the weather takes an unexpected turn." as part of Under the Weather.
They say the British complain about the weather at least three times a day.
Personally, I consider that an underestimation bordering on slander.
I complain about the weather the way other people hydrate: constantly, instinctively, and with a faint sense of moral duty.
It’s one of my most finely honed talents, practically a calling.
Too hot. Too cold. Too windy. Not windy enough.
The drizzle is rude. The cloud cover is smug. The frost feels judgmental.
Some people complain recreationally. I complain as if the climate owes me money.
Until last Tuesday, I assumed this was harmless.
A personality quirk.
A coping mechanism.
A British pastime with strong instincts for survival and sarcasm.
I only realised the weather had developed a personal vendetta against me the morning my umbrella tried to bite me.
The Umbrella Revolt
To be clear, it wasn’t a mouth or anything.
My umbrella, a device whose sole purpose is loyalty in adversity, snapped shut on my fingers like it had been hired to assassinate me.
I yelped and dropped it. A gust of wind immediately rolled it away down the pavement, with the vindictive enthusiasm of something that had finally handed in its notice.
I glared upward.
“Oh, so THAT’S your mood today,” I said.
A sunbeam appeared briefly to spotlight the discarded umbrella like a fallen soldier in a crime drama.
The sky, in my professional opinion, was smirking.
The Fog With Abandonment Issues
At first, I assumed it was normal fog — the ordinary kind that mists around a field like it’s auditioning for a period drama.
But no.
This fog had… intentions.
It didn’t float around generally.
It didn’t drift vaguely.
It followed me.
A tight, three-foot-wide clump of fog stuck directly behind my shoulder like an anxious intern afraid to ask where the toilets are.
I walked faster.
It drifted faster.
I stopped.
It bumped gently into my back, then hovered there apologetically.
“I don’t do clingy weather,” I informed it.
It oozed closer.
“I mean it,” I hissed. “I can’t even handle clingy people, or even people in the near vicinity.”
The fog quivered with what could only be described as hurt feelings.
By the time I reached Tesco Express, the fog had developed what I can only describe as an attachment style.
It pressed itself against the automatic doors, trying to seep in.
The sensor lights flickered in confusion as the fog repeatedly slammed its non-existent face into the glass.
“Stay,” I told it firmly. “You do not need a meal deal.”
It pulsed sadly.
Inside, the manager eyed me suspiciously.
“Is that… with you?” she asked, nodding at the fog plastered to the glass like it was auditioning to be my emotional support moisture.
“It is NOT,” I said, loudly enough for the fog to hear.
The fog sagged against the pane.
When I left the shop, it perked right up, swirling adoringly around my ankles like a weather-based pet with boundary issues.
“For the last time,” I said, stepping away, “I’m not your mother.”
It followed anyway.
A low rumble rolled across the sky, the kind of exasperated parental sigh clouds make when weather systems adopt a mortal without approval.
“Don’t look at me,” I snapped upward. “YOU made it emotional.”
The fog wrapped around my calf in a clingy, damp hug.
Fantastic.
I had accidentally imprinted on precipitation.
Hail, But Make It Personal
The hail arrived midweek, as if the weather had realised emotional intimidation alone was not enough.
Not normal hail.
Not polite, spherical hail.
Spiky daggers of death hail.
Tiny frozen weapons hammered my hood, my shoulders, my patience.
“REALLY?” I shouted up at the clouds. “THIS FEELS AGGRESSIVE.”
One perfect little ice arrow bounced off my temple, landed in my palm, and slowly melted down my lifeline like it was underlining a point.
“Why do you hate me?” I whispered.
Another hailstone hit me square in the back of the head, which I took as an answer.
The Sunshine That Wouldn’t Leave Me Alone
Sunshine normally avoids me, and I, having the complexion of a Victorian ghost who died of something poetic, have always respected the distance.
But that day?
It trailed after me.
A single golden spotlight illuminating me and only me, across:
- the pavement
- the bus stop
- the bakery aisle (offensive)
- the dentist’s waiting room (illegal in at least three moral frameworks)
A toddler pointed and said, “Mummy, that person’s glowing.”
The sunbeam brightened proudly.
I stepped left; the light stepped left.
I ducked under a tree; it bent itself round the branches like a determined torch.
“Oh, pick a personality,” I snapped. “Either ignore me or stalk me, but you can’t do both in one week.”
The beam warmed my face in what I could only interpret as smug.
The Final Straw
The next afternoon, I was mugged.
I wish that were an exaggeration.
I had just purchased a glorious, steaming carton of chips — golden, salted, perfect, the kind of chips that make you briefly believe in higher powers.
I lifted the first one.
Just one.
And that’s when the gust hit.
A sudden, deliberate blast from underneath, executed with the precision of a weather system that had trained for this moment.
My arm jerked.
The tray flipped, gracefully, insultingly gracefully, a perfect double somersault with a smug little twist at the end.
The chips lifted into the air like a choir ascending to heaven.
And then I noticed them.
The pigeons.
Roughly seventeen of them, though the way they moved in formation suggested some kind of feathery hive mind. They stood in a loose semicircle, staring up with the quiet, reverent hunger of a Roman audience awaiting gladiatorial bloodshed.
The airborne chips began to fall.
A hush fell over the pigeons, the kind usually reserved for royal weddings or bread sightings.
All seventeen pigeons inhaled sharply, in unison.
Then they descended.
It was carnage.
Wings flapped.
Feathers flew.
Two pigeons body-slammed each other mid-air in a fight over a single chip.
One particularly round pigeon executed what could only be described as a tactical combat roll to reach a fallen wedge.
Another perched triumphantly on my shoe, clutching a chip like a trophy, staring at me dead in the eye as if to say:
I am victorious. And you let it happen.
I watched, helpless, chipless, betrayed.
“…Why?” I whispered at the sky. “Why ME?”
A second gust slapped me across the face with the force of a wet towel.
Because it was funny, it seemed to say.
Something inside me cracked.
“THAT WAS UNCALLED FOR!” I shouted upward. “ABSOLUTELY UNCALLED FOR. THEY WERE MINE. THEY WERE HOT. THEY WERE A SYMBOL OF HOPE.”
Thunder rumbled — the kind of rumble someone makes when they’re trying very hard not to laugh.
“Oh, go on then!” I yelled. “ENJOY YOURSELF. RUIN SOMETHING ELSE WHILE YOU’RE AT IT.”
The clouds churned with mischief.
The wind looped around me like a bully who’d found a new hobby.
Below, the pigeons continued their feeding frenzy.
One strutted past with two chips in its beak like a tiny gangster carrying cigars.
Another attempted to fly away but was simply too full, ascending a tragic six inches before giving up entirely.
A third waddled onto my fallen carton, sat on it, and claimed it as property.
The wind rustled through my coat in a way that can only be described as applause.
I stood there, soaked, starving, surrounded by triumphant pigeons and divine mockery.
It was, unquestionably, the final straw.
By the time I got back to my flat, I was furious, and emotionally bereaved over fried potatoes.
Which is why, when a single raindrop fell directly onto my forehead as I unlocked my front door, I snapped.
Personal rain cloud hovering. Of course.
“That’s IT,” I shouted, dropping my keys. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”
The rain stopped.
The streetlights flickered.
The wind held its breath.
And then, with the terrible inevitability of a printer deciding to jam during a deadline, a voice spoke behind me.
“Enough,” said the voice.
The Performance Review
The man under my porch light looked like he’d lost an argument with both the wind and a filing cabinet.
His suit was damp. His hair was damp. His expression was the dampest thing about him, the kind that suggested he'd hit the end of his patience around the time Stonehenge was installed.
He flashed a badge.
WEATHER OPERATIONS, DIVINE DIVISION — GOD LEVEL: JUNIOR
He sighed like I'd personally contributed to his downfall.
“Right,” he said. “Which one of your little critiques pushed me over the edge?”
“My what?”
He snapped open a dripping folder.
“You complain constantly,” he said. “And normally I let it go. Truly, I do. I’m a tolerant deity. I once handled an entire century of sailors shouting slurs at headwinds.”
He flipped a page dramatically.
“But you? You are relentless.”
He jabbed a finger at the soggy dossier.
“Tuesday: ‘This drizzle feels personal.’
Wednesday: ‘Who approved this wind?’
Thursday morning: ‘If the sun could stop being smug for TEN MINUTES—’”
He mimicked my voice. Poorly.
I sputtered. “I didn’t mean it literally!”
“Oh, I know,” he snapped. “But the OTHER GODS don’t.”
He slammed the folder shut so hard a tiny thunderclap went off.
“You know what it’s like for me?” he demanded.
“I— no?”
“Of course you don’t!” he said, pacing in a small furious circle. “Do you have ANY idea what it’s like to be the Weather God? DO YOU?”
I shook my head.
“It’s humiliating,” he hissed.
“Everyone else gets something glamorous. War. Love. Death. Fate. Meanwhile I get—”
He waved a hand at the sky.
“Moisture distribution.”
Behind him, a small cloud drooped sympathetically.
“The War God stops by my office once a millennium just to laugh,” he said bitterly.
“The Love Goddess calls me ‘Mister Drippy.’ The Agriculture Gods only speak to me when they want favours. And don’t get me STARTED on the Sea God. Smug tidal bastard.”
He leaned in.
“So when YOU spend your entire mortal existence criticising my work, do you know what that sounds like?”
I shook my head again.
“Like confirmation,” he said grimly. “Confirmation that I am BAD at my job.”
“I never said—”
“You IMPLIED,” he snapped. “Which, in divine terms, is WORSE. Mortals moaning is basically performance feedback.”
“Oh God.”
“I AM A GOD,” he thundered, outraged.
Fair point.
“And do you know what the other gods said at our last Divine Operations Meeting?”
His voice lowered to a wounded whisper.
“They said I couldn’t even keep one mortal happy. ONE.”
He pointed at me like this was entirely my fault.
“And honestly?” he said, voice cracking slightly, “they are not wrong.”
A tiny gust of embarrassed wind swirled at his feet.
Negotiations with Management
We stood there, me in my doorway clutching damp keys, him dripping divine resentment onto the doormat.
“Look,” I said, “I’m sure you’re not actually bad at your job.”
He squinted at me like I’d just suggested hailstones were optional.
“Don’t patronise me,” he said. “Do you know how many storm systems I juggle in a day? How many microclimates? Do you know how often people shout at their weather apps? That all comes to ME.”
He thumped his chest. A faint rumble of thunder echoed the gesture.
“You lot scream at a five-day forecast like it personally wronged your ancestors, and then you come outside and yell at the sky as WELL. It’s like working in customer service when all the customers are unhinged.”
“I didn’t know you could hear that,” I muttered.
He stared.
I cleared my throat.
“So, um. What now? You’ve… told me off. Are you going to smite me? Send a personalised hailstorm? Replace my wardrobe with gym gear?”
He pulled a face.
“Smite you? For complaining?” He snorted. “Please. I’d have to smite an entire country. Besides, HR says I’m ‘too reactive.’”
He adjusted his tie, which made a small squelching sound.
“No,” he said. “We are going to establish… expectations.”
Nothing good has ever followed that sentence.
He snapped his fingers. A clipboard appeared, also damp, with a form titled:
MORTAL/WEATHER SERVICE LEVEL AGREEMENT
(Pilot Scheme – Do Not Copy to Other Regions)
He handed it to me along with a dripping pen.
“Clause One,” he said. “You will limit yourself to three weather complaints per calendar month.”
“Three a month?” I yelped. “That’s not even enough for today.”
“Rollovers permitted,” he said. “But no backdating. I am not recalculating your emotional climate for the past decade.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Clause Two,” he continued, “you will cease attributing malicious intent to specific weather phenomena. Drizzle is not ‘petty.’ Frost is not ‘classist.’ Fog is not ‘cowardly steam.’”
I opened my mouth.
“Do not say ‘humidity is manipulative,’” he warned. “He can hear you.”
The air thickened guiltily around my ankles.
“Clause Three,” he went on, “all rhetorical questions addressed to the sky will be considered non-actionable. No more ‘What else do you want?’ No more ‘Is this the best you can do?’ Lightning interprets those as direct requests. Lightning should not be empowered.”
“That one is fair,” I admitted.
“Clause Four: no demanding ‘proper snow’ and then complaining when it arrives.”
“That happened ONE time.”
“Twice,” he said. “And you called it ‘slippery nonsense.’”
“It was!”
We glared at each other for a moment, rain pattering gently around us like polite applause.
“Fine,” I said at last. “I’ll sign your divine terms and conditions. But I have a condition too.”
He folded his arms. “Go on.”
“You stop taking it so personally,” I said. “My complaining isn’t about you. It’s about… everything else, disguised as rain.”
He frowned.
“That makes no sense,” he said.
“It makes perfect sense,” I said back. “It’s easier to shout at the wind than at, I don’t know, capitalism. Or my own life choices. You’re… safe to blame.”
He blinked a few times, rain dripping off his lashes.
“So you use my entire global system,” he said slowly, “as emotional target practice?”
“…Yes?”
He stared up at the clouds, then back at me, then let out a laugh so short and sharp it startled the nearest lamppost.
“Of course you do,” he muttered. “Of course you do. War gets devotion. Love gets desperation. I get… displaced ennui.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“All right,” he sighed. “Fine. I will… attempt not to interpret every sigh at a grey sky as a personal appraisal of my competence.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” I said. “Well, that and slightly less targeted murderous hail.”
He glanced upward.
The clouds shuffled guiltily.
“We’ll… review hail allocation,” he said.
He held the pen out again.
“Sign?”
I scrawled my name on the soggy line. The ink bled, ran, and then glowed faintly before settling.
The clipboard vanished with a small pop.
Closing Skies
The Weather God straightened up, water dripping from his cuffs.
“Right,” he said. “I have a storm front to untangle over Wales and a heatwave having a panic attack in Spain. Try to complain less. I will try to fail less. Perhaps we’ll meet somewhere in the middle.”
“Lukewarm and overcast?” I suggested.
His mouth twitched.
“That’s my best work,” he said.
He took a step back. His outline blurred, edges unravelling into mist.
“Oh,” he added, half-faded, “and for the record? You were right about the sunshine. She’s terribly smug,” he confided. “Don’t tell her I said so.”
“I knew it.”
Then he was gone.
The porch light steadied.
Rain resumed with what felt, for the first time in days, like a complete lack of agenda.
Weather, After
I stood there a moment longer, listening to the soft hiss of it on the pavement.
No hail.
No personal spotlight.
No fog pressing its emotional issues against the glass.
Just… weather.
A breeze brushed past my cheek, cool and tentative.
“All right,” I said quietly. “Truce.”
It ruffled my hair in what I chose to interpret as apology.
A single raindrop plonked into the middle of the step in front of me, oversized and dramatic, like a final exclamation mark.
I pointed at the sky.
“That does NOT count as a complaint,” I warned it. “I’m just saying.”
The clouds shifted, noncommittal.
I went inside, hung my traitor umbrella up to dry, and put the kettle on.
Outside, the weather carried on with its strange, complicated, overworked little existence.
For once, it didn’t feel like it was all about me.
And for once, I decided not to take it personally.
Progress, apparently, is incremental.
Posted Dec 11, 2025
