Michael Woodbury

That Funnel Of Hell

My parents are watching the news as the story of the new mall is interrupted.
News Flash: “A tornado watch has just been issued in Southern Texas.
All citizens are being told to find shelter and take cover. Closets and
basements are recommended for your security and safe-being.”
           They scramble through the house for my sleeping baby sister.
         I’m just playing on the street, baseball with the neighbors.
      My team cheers as I slowly make my way to the plate.
    I don’t swing at the first pitch, for I see the skies change.
    The deep gray swallows our game’s harmony. A tube
      seems to form within the clouds, I’ve never seen this.
        What can make this crazy cloud? I listen for stormy winds.
            There are none. All I hear is silence. No night songs of the
                birds, or chirping of crickets. It seems to be so peaceful
                    and heavenly, yet something seems to be so out of the
                       ordinary. It’s too quiet. I begin to think: “What is
                           going on here? This can’t be right.” Then, my
                               parents call: “There’s a hell of a storm
                                     coming! Get to shelter!” Fear grips
                                         me. Then, the sky begins to
                                           tremble and roar. The
                                         clouds twist, falling to
                                      the ground in a long,
                                   fiendish funnel. Then,
                                 all of a sudden,


Copyright 2002-2008 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose 2002-2008 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. SPP developed and designed by Strong Bat Productions.