F3

I’m sitting under a painting. Knees pulled tight to my chest, soul reaching its tendrils outward into purple-gray clouds. The painting rolls, swirls, builds. Huddled next to a ’74 Chevy Nova – not the safest place. Not even sane. But the view!

It’s thick and it begins descending. The painting shifts, background taking on a sickly green hue. Sky is the color of last week’s black eye – but that’s neither here nor there. Still crouched, half-willing the masterpiece to swallow me whole.

Hail. Screw it. Been beaten before. Let it hail. Not long now. God takes my picture. Here it comes. The painting comes to life. Arms unclench my knees and I unravel my body to stand. The Chevy can’t go anywhere anymore but with any luck, I can. I pray to the tornado, “take me away.” I scream at it. Demand it to. Then the vortex descends.