Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

The Creator of the Tornado

There was this big barren yard in the back of our house. Ever since we moved to this home, we have been trying to pave it over with cement because my dad needed the area to build a garage. However, because it had only been two months since we lived here and things are always hectic in the beginning when you move, the job was not completely finished yet. So the parts that were closest to the house had been fairly well paved, but the parts that were farthest from the house hadn’t even been looked at yet. I remember there was one particular corner on the far right when you walk out from the back door where there was hardly any grass. Surprisingly though, it had the most fertile soil of all. We knew that the soil was fertile because my mom used some of this soil to plant her flowers near the front door. The flowers blossomed at an amazing rate. However, the soil in that location served no good to the community that it was in. My mom tried to plant tomatoes; nothing grew; then she tried to plant daffodils; it was an epic failure; then we decided that this land is a wasteland. Another odd but pleasant feature that the house had was that its backyard was connected to a stream. Usually the stream had a water level up to mid-ankle. It was quite large, about 20 to 25 ft. The stream added a sense of tranquility to the house in some sense. I can’t really describe it, but its presence was a nice addition to the scenery. I particularly enjoyed it in this time of year when the temperature was almost 100oF every day. Sometimes, I took walks down the stream by myself, and sometimes with my 3rd-grade friends. They were very good times, positive memories. My family liked to spend hot summer evenings in the backyard just because of the fresh air that blew up from the stream. We had had at least 3 picnics since we moved here two months ago. That’s how much we liked spending our time in the backyard, at least during the summer.

The inside of the house was oddly structured. First of all, the house was very small in its width and length. So they decided to put in as many floors as possible to maximize the livable area. It ended up that we had 4 floors. The first floor, the ground floor, was beautiful. When you first walk into the front door, the house would appear very spacious because there was a special mirror placed into the direction of your focus that would give you an illusion of the actual area of the house. However, when you take about 3 steps into the living room, you would become disillusioned of how small the house really was. The living room was merged with the kitchen, which was combined with the dining room. Actually, it really wasn’t a dining room at all because it was just basically a dining table. You would have to reach the end of the house in order to walk upstairs because the stairs were located in the very back of the house. In order to reach it though, walking from the front door, you would have to pass many obstacles to get there because of all the toys laying around on the floor in the living room. My little brother was three years old, so he was constantly playing with the toys. Usually, you wouldn’t pass kitchen very easily because of the temptation created by the pleasant odors of the food my mom cooked. She was and is an excellent cook. Whenever my friends passed by the kitchen, they would have to stop to ask for something before they go upstairs. I tried my best to avoid stopping for food every time I went upstairs. I did not want to gain any more weight. When you have finally passed the kitchen and headed upstairs, there was this feeling associated with the first encounters of the second floor. I always felt when I went upstairs that I was still down in the ground floor because it looked very similar to the ground floor. The carpet, the wall paint, the clocks, the smell, everything was so similar to the first floor. However, when you walk into my older brother’s room or my room, that feeling drastically disappeared. Everything was different in his room: the paint, the carpet, the lighting, the atmosphere. My room was right next to his, and everything was different in my room too. This was where we spent most of our time, working on homework, listening to music, watching TV, or reading books. This was where most of our productivity, or non-productivity, was at its maximum when we lived in this house. Once you have passed my bedroom, then the staircase would be on your left. Going from second floor to third floor was not as surprising as going from first floor to second floor. The changes between the third floor and the second floors were gradual. You could almost see that the second floor was morphing into the third floor in some sense as you walk up the staircase. The odor changed gradually; the lighting changed from bright light to dimmer and dimmer light settings. One thing that remained the same though is the character of the house. Even though the decorations, lighting, and layout of each floor are different, you could still tell that this was my home no matter what floor you’re on, because there was something unique about it. I can’t really describe it, but there was something unique about it. The third floor was where my parents’ room was located. It was not as nice as the second or first floor. Then the fourth floor…Well, to be honest, I hadn’t been up to the fourth floor many times since we moved here. Maybe three times.

One day, the washing machine broke, and I can still remember my mom calling me, “Son, it seems like I won’t be able to wash all of your school uniforms by tomorrow. Which one do you need the most? I’ll just do some hand-laundry.” So I replied to her and said that I needed the white shirt the most because we were having our choral concert the following Monday, and I was expected to wear a white shirt. She did her laundry in the backyard that I told you about, on the pavement off course. When she was doing her laundry, there was still light out, but it was late in the evening already. I kind of hung around the backyard a little bit because I had nothing else to do. I spent time carving something that I can’t remember onto a piece of wood that my dad had laying around for the construction of the garage. After about 20 minutes, I was tired and wanted to go into the kitchen to get something to eat or some drinks. But when I looked up, I suddenly saw someone sitting on a small stool in the unfertile soil area, doing something that I could not decipher. I had no idea what she was doing, and I had no idea who she was. It was a fearful situation seeing someone you do not recognize in your own backyard. I was scared so I looked back to ask my mom who this person was. My mom wasn’t there. The clothes were the on floor and everything was still there, but she wasn’t. I yelled out as loud as I could to the stranger and asked who she was. There was not even the slightest action of response coming from her. She continued doing whatever she was doing, even though I was yelling as loudly as I could. My apprehension heightened. At this point, I was really scared of why this person was here. My entire body began to chill. I ran to her as quickly as possible, while I kept yelling to her to find out who she was. I was running towards her, yelling, and yelling, and yelling. I kept running towards her, and towards her, and towards her, but I could never reach her. Suddenly the yard was larger than I remembered it was. The faster I ran towards her, the farther away I was from her. I kept running and running and running and yelling and yelling and yelling. As I was racing to that mysterious person, my vision began to fail. I could see less and less as time passed by, to the point that the entire world was blocked from me. I was scared and lost, but I was still running towards that lady to find out who she was. I lost all the heat in my body running towards her; I was cold, scared, lost, and completely blocked out from the rest of the world. Then suddenly, someone grabbed my hand. I didn’t know who it was because I still could not see. The fear at that point was at its peak. I had never been so frightened in my entire life. Then I heard a voice saying, “Son! Hurry up into the house! There is a tornado coming!” Instantly, I felt the warmth of a human being again. I felt the warmth coming from mother’s hands and voice. I opened my eyes and could see everything again, but nothing was the same. The nigh was dark, and the stranger wasn’t there anymore. Not just the lady, there was no indication that she was even there in the first place. The temperature dropped from a normal 95oF to an extremely cold temperature. And even more shocking, the little stream was on the verge of overflow. This I had never seen before. The water level of the stream had never even reached 5 inches above my ankle, let alone overflowing.

Then my mom, still holding my hand, rushed us inside the house, while we could see the tornado being not very far away. The tornado was destroying everything in its path, leaving nothing behind except ruins. We ran in the house as quickly as we could. My mom told me, “Run down to the basement!” This was the first time I had been down to the basement, knowing nothing about it at all. We all ducked under desks and tables away from the windows to avoid shattered glasses. After about 25 minutes, the tornado had passed and everything in house was destroyed. Everything was destroyed. When we walked up from the basement, it was so difficult making our way through the ruins. I scouted around the ruins to find anything that was still left. Nothing! Everything was destroyed. I wandered through the yard without hope. To my surprise, I found a family picture on the ground, all ripped up and everything, but I could still tell this picture was taken when my youngest brother was born in the hospital. I asked my mom, “Why haven’t I seen this picture before?” She told me that it was displayed on the fourth floor, but I paid too little attention to that part of the house to remember. Then I picked up a piece of wood just to throw into the stream as a sign of disappointment. But then I realized that this was the same piece of wood that I carved something on. I remember what I carved now! I carved a picture of the house, my last memory of it.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback