Recipe For A Tornado
That strange but familiar lady... who is she? I've seen her before but I can't quite place it. Her face looks old and she is smiling. Her hair is dark, and cut short, slightly wavy about the sides of her head.
Something has flown away. Was it her, on a broom? I'm not sure.
I find myself in the food court at the mall, with three of my friends. We are discussing everyday matters as usual, and I have to go to the bathroom. It turns out, the bathroom is not a bathroom. I have been transplanted into the hollowed-out section of a giant tree. There are no doors visible, but it could probably house 40 or so people. Its trunk extends up to an ambiguous distance; extremely high, but not too high. There is a window carved in the bark, slightly above my reach. I pee out the window, relieving myself in my original intent. I hope dearly that no one sees, for it is not a bathroom, but should be. When I finish, I realize the truth.
There are leaves rustling about at the floor of the tree, blown by a wind that comes in through the
window. They go round in circles tirelessly. If I let the cat out, and keep it out for 20 days
while the leaves stir, I will have a tornado on my hands. I hope it works.