A house sits between a tornado and a thunderstorm. Whirling winds on the left. Crashing thunder on the right.

The little house that sits between the two, its old paint peeling, the shingles on the roof slowly falling off, the trees uprooted, lost the old mailbox to the tornado and the chimney to the lightning, but the house is old, aged; it’s dealt with more than a little bit of wind and some rain.

Bolts of lightning stretch across the angry gray sky like scars; the thunder is simply its screams and cries for help, and the rain its tears. The house grew a field of flowers and strawberries, each time the tears fall down in buckets the garden grows bigger and more beautiful than it was before. The clouds have sad faces, never letting the sun shine through, as the weeping faces don’t know the stars are only just above them.

A whirlwind of torture is held within the tornado, it screams with the wind as it twirls inside its cage of whipping air, pick- ing up trees, skateboards and small bits of thought, allowing it all to spiral along with it. The house never resisted the tornado, never built a fence or closed its blinds. The tornado could scoop it up into the sky if it wanted to, and the house and the howling wind could try and heal together, but the tornado simply turns in a circle, hurling rocks into the sky when the hurt grows too heavy.

Once in a blue moon the raging weather fades for a day, allowing the clouds to turn white and the celestial beings in the stars to shine their light.