Tornado – 3 fin.

The thing I did care about was the tornado. I turned around and looked back at the house. I didn’t see it. There was only the endless blue skies with the occasional pillars.

I came back into the house, to the front door. I heard nothing. The old curved tulip lamps weren’t flickering. I pressed my ear against the door. There was no sound. I went to open the door. I hesitated. My hands frozen, cupping the air below the brass knob. The image of the tornado made the hairs on my back rise. I decided the window. I stepped over into the living room. The cushy padding of the carpet molded to each of my steps. The sunlight radiating from the curtains was promising.

I whipped it open.

The sky was blue and the front yard was green. All the way to the edge. The damage was gone. Unfortunately, the tornado wasn’t.

It loomed over on the right. Not on the land, but out in the sky. Its bottom was below the cliff. And as big as the window was, I couldn’t see its top. It was much larger now. Almost half the size of this isle. It would easily demolish the house in one rotation. But it paced out there. Not moving toward my isle. Not at all. It just weaved back and forth. Like a snake dancing to some flute. I didn’t feel fear anymore. I felt, entertained. I slid over a wooden rocking chair. I sat in it and watched. I could hear it now. Its low below and occasional high wisps. It was wind. I hated wind. And somehow, this arrangement was acceptable. For me and, don’t ask me how I know, but for it too.

I rocked. Never taking my eye off of it.

Tornado – 1

It was wide, the size of two football fields. Pulling the grass and debris up in a counter-clockwise fashion. It didn’t move. I sat there churning away. I could see the gray streams of cloud and dirt being pulled in and up to the sky. I could see this because I was about a hundred yards away.

Its road was loud.

I slammed the door close. Inside the house, everything was quiet. I didn’t dare look through the window. Out of sight, out of mind, it didn’t exist.

The house was colonial, as in all the furniture looked like they belonged in some antique show. Even the picture frames on the walls. They were these oval wooden frames with black and white pictures of people I didn’t know. They hung in the hallway that I followed back into the kitchen. There was a small circular table, surrounded by arched wooden chairs. A fruit bowl was the center piece. The refridgerator was an old school model. The kind with a lever that would unhinge the door to be opened. Over by the sink was a window. Light illuminated the curtains. I pulled them apart. It was sunny and clear. Blue skies and green grass. I looked for a way out and left through the back door.