In the Welsh village of Tywydd, it was widely accepted that the weather had moods. If the sheep escaped, it would rain. If Dai the Butcher was late opening, it would snow. If Mrs Jenkins sang while hanging out washing, clouds would scatter like gossip after chapel.
Nobody could explain it, but nobody needed to. And everyone knew Mrs Mabli was boss of the Weather Committee.
Of course, there was no official committee. Nothing written down, no badges. But every Tuesday, a group of women with floral umbrellas met in Tywydd Memorial Hall to ‘have a word’ with the elements.
“I tell you,” said Mrs Mabli one grey-skied morning, stirring her tea with a biro, “We’ve got too much drizzle and not enough dignity.”
“Last week my cat grew moss,” muttered Gwenllian, who’d been drying laundry in her hallway for seven days.
“The garden slugs are developing social structures,” said Blodwen, who’d once trained marigolds to grow in the shape of her husband.
The committee clucked and nodded. It was time to take action.
That Thursday, Mabli walked into the post office with a determined gait and handed the Postmistress a stamped envelope addressed:
THE DEPARTMENT OF WEATHER ADJUSTMENT
Somewhere, Probably Cardiff
Wales
Inside was a note written on pink notepaper scented with lavender:
Dear Weather Department,
I am writing on behalf of the Tywydd Weather Committee. We request a rebalancing of atmospheric conditions:
– No more than two consecutive days of rain.
– Sunshine on market days
– Winds strong enough to dry sheets, not blow them into Aberystwyth.
Warm regards,
Mrs M. Mabli (Chairwoman, unofficial)
To Mabli’s great satisfaction, someone replied. It arrived by pigeon. A pigeon wearing a tiny waterproof cape.
The note read:
Dear Mrs Mabli,
Unfortunately, due to recent cosmic interference and staffing issues in the Department (one cloud herder retired, the other turned into a cumulonimbus), adjustments may be delayed.
In the meantime, please consider taking localised weather into your own capable hands.
Yours atmospherically,
Carys, Assistant Undercloud Technician
“Well!” Mabli said, hands on hips. “If it’s up to us, then we’ll jolly well manage it ourselves.“
The following Tuesday, the Committee met with jam tarts, thermometers, and a retired weathervane named Trevor. They agreed on three main goals:
- Manage the rain. Not stop it, heavens no — they were Welsh, not mad. Just persuade it to behave.
- Encourage sunshine, particularly on days involving:
- sheep shearing
- outdoor bingo
- Dai the Butcher’s annual barbecue
- Redirect misbehaving wind away from Rhian’s greenhouse, which had taken flight twice and landed in Pontypridd.
Mabli took it upon herself to build the first Weather Whistle, an instrument she swore her great-aunt used to control mist during Eisteddfod parades.
It was made from a copper teapot, an umbrella handle, and six teaspoons. When she blew it, nothing happened. Five minutes later, the clouds parted, and a rainbow appeared over the Co-op.
“That’s either sorcery,” said Gwenllian, “or timing so lucky we dare not waste it.”
By the end of the month, changes were noticeable.
- The rain fell only at night.
- Pigeons lined up in neat rows on telegraph wires, seemingly in conference.
- A local spaniel was elected Official Wind Tester, wearing a special scarf that flapped in helpful directions.
- Children began predicting the weather more accurately than the BBC using nothing but toast and marbles.
Tourists thought it charming. Locals called it Mabli’s Mood. Even the council took note after the village narrowly escaped a freak hailstorm that landed, oddly, only on the local MP’s garden. “He voted against extending bus routes,” Mabli said, deadpan.
But balance, as always, is delicate.
One morning, Rhian burst into the meeting, hair like a dandelion and smelling faintly of lightning. “There’s a problem,” she panted. “We’ve overdone it. I think we’ve attracted something.”
“What sort of something?”
She gulped. “A Storm Sprite. Possibly two.”
This was serious.
Storm Sprites lived over the Irish Sea, drawn by improper weather rituals and unsanctioned meddling.
“Do they bite?” Blodwen asked.
“No,” said Gwenllian, “but they’re terribly sarcastic and ruin perfectly good hairdos.”
That night, thunder growled above the hills like a snoring dragon. The wind knocked over bins with deliberate spite.
Mabli stood in the garden in her slippers, shouting into the gale, “Now look here! This is community-led meteorological maintenance, not an invitation to throw tantrums.”
Something shimmered in the air, a crackle, a laugh like wind chimes and then a small shape zipped past her ear like a wasp made of mist and fury.
“That’s it,” she muttered, going inside to find the Emergency Umbrella. The one with the runes painted on it in nail polish.
At dawn, Mabli marched to the standing stones above the village and planted her umbrella like a flag. “I offer a truce!” she declared into the storm. “You may resume standard weather operations with immediate effect, as long as you remember who you’re dealing with.”
The wind paused. Then, with a sneeze-like gust and a flash of lavender-scented lightning, the sky cleared. Rainbows bloomed. Not one, not two, but three, all stacked like traffic lights.
The Storm Sprites, it seemed, accepted her terms, though not without leaving one last cloud in the shape of a rude gesture.
The Weather Committee no longer tried to control the weather. They influenced it gently, with polite suggestions and the occasional bribe of honey cake left at the crossroads.
Mabli was awarded an unofficial title: Guardian of the Microclimate. Tourists came to Tywydd in search of the ‘magic village where rain only falls on Mondays.’ The locals knew better. It wasn’t magic. It was Mabli, her friends, and a well-behaved pigeon named Hazel.
And every Tuesday at 10am, under the quiet hiss of the kettle and the steady tick of Trevor the Weather Vane, the committee met and discussed that week’s forecast. Because as Mabli always said, “You can’t control the weather. But you can invite it in for tea and ask it nicely.”
I just want to say thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for bringing a breath of fresh air to so much hopelessness, to this feeling of the end of the world we’re experiencing. Writing with humor is incredibly difficult, and even more so when we think that everything around us, everything, is despondent and pessimistic. I loved the story, I loved being able to laugh, I loved the fresh tone and the use of magic, so necessary, so illuminating. I felt like a child again, what a delight.
María Fernanda Ampuero
“Mrs. Mabli and the Weather Committee” is quirky and surreal and relatable, and to propose such a setting with humor, both subtle and grand, shows the skillful mastery of language and plot. This was a much needed pleasant story, escaping into another realm with peace and laughter.
Shome Dasgupta
Eleven years ago, life threw Sharon Hier an unexpected plot twist, a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis that led to early retirement at 44. Since then, she’s completed a Creative Writing degree with The Open University and joined an online writing group funded by MS Cymru, where they happily discuss and critique story arcs and the rhythm of a good sentence. Sharon lives in Swansea, Wales, a place full of sea-salted inspiration, craggy coastlines, and woodland walks, often shared with her three daughters. When her health allows, you’ll find her horse-riding across the Gower’s breathtaking scenery, dreaming up characters and sometimes getting lost on purpose. Her husband has learned to expect detours and dramatic monologues about fictional people.
Oxford Flash Fiction Prize 