Tilting at Turbines
A dawn hillside. Mist slides over the grass. A line of wind turbines turns slowly on the ridge, blades emitting an intermittent whooshing noise as they cut the sky. Professor Quixote, hair unkempt, Barbour jacket frayed, sets up a tripod beside a patch of flattened grass where his drone rests, a small banner tied beneath it: “LET SILENCE LIVE.”
He checks the horizon, breathes in the chill, then turns to the camera on his phone.
QUIXOTE (softly, into camera)
Welcome, friends of tranquility. This is N.I.M.B.Y. — the National Initiative for Maintaining Beautiful Yesterdays.
He gestures toward the turbines.
QUIXOTE
They call these giants progress. Arms of the future, waving us away.
Spinning above the hills that once belonged to dawn and larks.
He pauses, watching the turbines turn, shoulders tightening before he forces them to relax.
QUIXOTE (quieter)
My little cottage is right over there.
I used to read Keats to my wife on this ridge.
Promised her the world would always be this quiet.
He gently smoothens the banner between his fingers.
QUIXOTE (carefully brighter, for the camera)
Today, we stand for the silence. For the hills that remember us.
Sancho appears, a folding stool in one hand, a coffee thermos in the other.
SANCHO
Morning, Prof.
He sets the stool down, checking the drone rig, eyes flicking to the turbines.
SANCHO (sipping from thermos)
They’re really just trying to keep the lights on, you know.
Quixote doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the turbines.
QUIXOTE (quietly certain)
Your yesterday is someone else’s tomorrow, Sancho. But it’s still ours to keep.
He lifts the drone carefully, the small banner flickering in the dawn breeze as the turbines turn, slowly and tirelessly, above them.
SANCHO (gently)
Prof, you sure this is worth it? Those fines can be hefty.
Quixote presses the power button. The drone lights blink.
QUIXOTE (calmly)
If we do not stand for beauty, Sancho, we surrender it.
He places the drone down. The banner stirs.
SANCHO (quietly)
Maybe silence doesn’t mind sharing the hills.
Quixote looks to the camera on its tripod.
QUIXOTE (to camera)
Friends of tranquility, today we fly for the hills that remember us. Lest they forget.
He lifts the controller. The drone’s lights blink, then steady. Its small rotors whine, lifting it above the flattened grass. The banner unfurls, catching the dawn breeze.
QUIXOTE (quietly, eyes on it)
Look, Sancho. It’s flying.
SANCHO (sipping coffee)
It really is, Prof.
The breeze shifts, tugging at the drone, pulling it closer to the turbines.
QUIXOTE (softly)
For the hills. For silence. For the beauty of yesterday.
The banner flutters, clear in the cold light. The drone wavers. For an instant, it and the turbine blade share the frame.
A clean, metallic clip. The drone jolts and spins. A soft thud follows.
They walk over. Sancho picks up the drone, lights still blinking, propellers bent.
QUIXOTE (exhaling)
We struck a blow.
SANCHO (sipping coffee, watching Quixote’s face)
You know, Prof... maybe they’re not waving us away. Maybe they’re waving us forward.
My electricity bills are through the roof lately.
Quixote’s fingers tighten on the drone. His jaw works once before he lifts his head.
QUIXOTE (to camera, steady)
Friends of tranquility... the giants still turn their arms.
But we were here. We stood for the silence.
He lowers the drone. A notification on the phone screen reads: “0 viewers.” Quixote exhales, a small, tired smile flickering.
SANCHO
Heroic... In a way.
They stand in the dawn breeze. The turbines turn, slow and tireless, above them.
Quixote glances at the camera one last time, zipping his Barbour jacket.
QUIXOTE (wistfully)
Remember the quiet.
The screen cuts to black.