Funnel

Squeak, squeak ... creak. The bicycle is losing it's lubrication once again. These intense wet rains were quite refreshing and invigorating but torturous on bicycle parts. She stopped under a tree. It is dripping with desperation to shed the downpour from its scooping dark green leaves. Excited, without fear of others overhearing, she talks out loud, “Oh dear tree, thank you. You are my savior!” The tree itself was quite short in height but the density of the leaves and its half-oval shape were just enough to create a natural umbrella. She stands under her new companion. A sigh of relief.

Kickstand down. Back-pack open. Fumbling through her bag of tools. Where did I put it? Oh, that's it. It was a tiny little bottle she got from the dollar store. Perfectly small and secure to contain the few drops of oil necessary to get the bicycle back into action. A drop here, a drop there. Especially the pedals. They got quite dry (rubbing metal to metal) due to the violent splashing from reckless car drivers. These streets don't drain as well as they used to. Fine for cars but the bicyclists suffer from the run-off. As she squirted small oil drops into just the right spots the squeaking was alleviated. Dad always taught her, if it squeaks it's bound to break, keep it running smooth and it's yours forever. Her dad was quite the mechanically inclined person – unlike herself – she preferred to daydream and write.

The trickling and pattering sound of the rain stopped. A deep breath, rushing through her nose. The feeling of fresh after-rain air cooled and cleansed her lungs. Nothing is comparable. No more dust. No more exhaust smell from cars. It was perfect. But be-careful she thought to herself, the roads are slippery now. She hopped onto her bicycle, waving to her new tree friend – thinking toward the tree – “I'll remember where you are, we'll meet again for a picnic!” As she begin to peddle she could hear the deep intense roar of thunder. Beside her the windows of a house could be heard rattling in suspense. This was a new storm - a storm unlike any other. The rain was going to return. Better hurry up. As she continued riding, sirens begin to blare in the distance. The storm horn begin to make that crazy wobbling, throbbing, and piercing sound. It was this bad? What do I do? Riding home will take at least another hour.

Stopping for a moment to look behind her. She can see it. The funnel. Getting bigger and steadily heading her way. The trees begin to violently sway back and forth, until they started to bend in only one direction. That can only mean one thing. It started, strange crackling noises and banging sounds from the far distance. Cars unwillingly begin to move by themselves. Oh my God! She hopped off her bicycle to look around. No one in sight. How could I have missed the news? Why didn't anyone warn me? Running toward the nearest house, she banged on the door. No use. The residence, if they are there, they will just think it's the storm. Well, there's no choice now. She grabs her bag and looks for her bicycle lock. She holds it with both hands to make a clenched solid fist. Approaching the front window, she gathers up her strength and begins to hit it, again, again, and again. The window finally shatters but only partially. Taking off her helmet, she uses it to smash away the remaining fragments.

Prepared to jump into the house – she has a moment of clarity and thinks to herself, 'Wait, my beloved bicycle!' Head down into the blowing winds, she steps toward it. The bicycle feels incredibly heavy. She drags it with all of her might, slipping into the ground. She cries, “No, please let me take my bicycle!” Suddenly, a boy inside the house, holding a bright flash light, noticed her. A psychic moment occurred – staring into her eyes – each sharing thoughts of fear and forebodement. Without thinking or speaking, he sees her predicament and runs to her distress. Helping her toss the bicycle into the house, he then yells into the muffling wind, “Come on! You must come with me now!” She looks sadly at her bicycle, possibly for the last time, and runs with him down to the basement.

“You are so lucky I saw you. We needed to get more water.”, the boy explained. The house begin to rumble and shake. All of the lights suddenly went out. A moment of eerie silence, then a swirling-howling-buzzing sound... as if though hundreds of saws were encasing the house and ready to cut it open. Not far from the truth, as the storm was using the entire neighborhood as a natural drill – every piece it picked up was used to destroy the next object. One neighbor's property and possessions were tragically being used as a weapon against another neighbor. The storm was a natural enemy to humans – without prejudice – with only one purpose – destruction.

Hours later, darkness, silence. Birds chirping in the distance. It must be safe now. As the boy opened the basement door, beams of sunlight blinded him. The clarity of the sky was immense. Too immense! Where is the house? All he could see were fragments of broken wood, shingles and pieces of the bathroom furniture - the bottom portion of a 'secured' toilet and a stubborn overturned bathtub.