Up in the Clouds

By Rachel Dib

Whoever imagined living on a cloud would be comfortable is an idiot.

Now, obviously, I don’t mean a real cloud. Those are just water droplets suspended in the atmosphere. No. I mean the type of cloud children envision: big fluffy cotton balls where naked babies sporting soft, feathery wings hang out and play the harp. Now imagine them building-shaped so unfortunates can work and live in them. Yeah, those types of clouds might sound great, but believe me, they’re not.

For one, the loose fibers tear way too easily, forcing its occupants to keep patching holes. Second, walking on springy, uneven ground all the time tears up the knees and back.

I know this because as part of the Atmosphere Management Work Team, I’m forced to live on such a cloud. It’s my punishment for being a “menace to society.” Apparently, flooding my neighbor’s garden was one step past an acceptable prank. The fact my neighbor was a judge didn’t help—or his having lots of judge friends. Apparently one of those friends believed using my weather-forming talent to benefit the community would improve my character.

So, now I live on my fake, health-hazardous cloud and provide small suburban towns with their designated weather. Sigh. At least the naked angel babies don’t exist.

As bad as it sounds, though, living on a cloud and being forced to conduct only authorized weather patterns is nothing compared to my new assignment: training Boris.

Pursing my lips, I glare down at the burly, young man lounging in my office chair. I try to maintain a stern bearing, but my eyes keep wandering to the jellyfish tattoo on the side of his neck. It’s purple, wears a gingham apron, and has bulbous googly eyes—which is weird enough. But what really throws me is the baby rattle wrapped in one of its tentacles. Every time I see the elephant-shaped toy, my brow automatically lifts in a “but why?” expression, which totally kills my attempt at a domineering countenance.

I sniff. “Comfy?”

Boris lifts a lazy gaze. “Enough.”

I nod. “Well, be comfy on your own time. We have the redneck town of Beaufort to cleanse. All the plants decided to pollinate at once, and the ground looks like a gang of vengeful fairies sprinkled yellow sneezing power everywhere.”

Boris grunts, leans back in my chair, and closes his eyes. “Do it yourself.”

“Well, that’s an option,” I agree. In a mock peppy voice, I add, “But then how would you start learning your awesome new job?”

Boris lets out a slow breath. He meets my eye with a hardened look only an experienced criminal can produce. “Do you know what I did to get stuck here?”

I wag a finger at him. “I assume something naughty.”

“I stuck metal rods around my ex-boss’s yard and summoned a lightning storm. Tore up his lawn and fried his prized pooch.”

Okay that’s… disturbing. How did he only get community service? Regardless, if I showed even an ounce of unease, he’d never work. While I found self-preservation important, I also needed a partner to reach my quotas in time.

I lower my chin, contorting my face into a bored expression. “So, you wanted this position. Got it. Get up and man your post.”

To my surprise, Boris’s mouth drops open. Turning, I walk out of my office. Boris follows.

When we reach my weather-forming floor, I casually point out the different stations, explaining what mechanisms help us form or concentrate each type of weather. When I halt in front of the machine I’d dubbed the “pressure washer”—used for giving towns a good rinse—Boris’s eyes light up.

He runs a finger over a lever. “This looks promising.”

I slap his hand away. “And until you can use it responsibly, it’s off limits.” I motion to the right of the machine. “Stand there. I’ll tell you when to start forming a heavy downpour.”

Boris growls something indiscernible but stands where I’d pointed.

I tap the pressure washer’s screen and enter the town’s coordinates. When an aerial view of the region appears, I zoom in to measure Beaufort’s dimensions. To my luck, it’s just within the parameters for a one-and-done downpour. Otherwise I would’ve had to section off areas and cleanse them individually. While I’d gotten used to inputting the formulas for cross-sectioning, it’s a bit much to make me deal with both math and Boris.

Once the pressure washer is configured, I glance up to see Boris studying me. The intensity in his gaze makes my skin crawl. I clear my throat.

“Okay. So, instead of forming a separate cloud, focus your downpour through this one.” I tap my foot against the fake cloud. “It might feel a little weird at first. But it’s easy once you get the hang of it.”

Boris’s lips curve in a sneer. “You mean like this?” He closes his eyes and a moment later, the cloud gains a spongy, waterlogged texture.

“Exactly.” I nod, somewhat annoyed by how quickly he’d accomplished the task. It took me a week.

Flipping the pressure washer’s engage switch, I watch as water flows from the cloud and transforms into raindrops—and then the cloud turns a charcoal gray.

I sigh and edge backward. I’d witnessed such a phenomenon once before when a trainee decided it’d be funny to summon an unauthorized thunderstorm. The cloud had a fail-safe system to protect the town. No worries there.

The perpetrator, though…

After the rain had fallen for twenty minutes, I return to the pressure washer’s controls. Boris lay sprawled on the ground, wide-eyed and mouth agape. His brows are singed, and his short hair stands on end.

I bite my cheek to keep from grinning too broadly. “The cloud’s correctional safety system stings, doesn’t it?”

Boris emits a guttural croak.

“Don’t worry. The electric shock won’t kill you.” I turn off the machine. “So, besides stupidly getting yourself electrocuted, that was easy, right? Ready for our next assignment?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the United States. Her works of short fiction have been published by On the Premises Magazine, Havok Publishing, and Ye Olde Dragon Books. She has also had short stories published by Toasted Cheese Literary Journal under the name R.J. Snowberger.

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