A Storm

Round and round and round the grooves in the grass do wind in the clearing, I absently note as I sit under the wizened mulberry tree.

The pencil in my hand is tracing the curlicues in the clouds with flourishing strokes, the graphite glimmering in the summer sun yet contrasting greatly (dramatically, startlingly, beautifully) with the glowing sky, but my eyes are glazed (thoughtful, some might call that long stare at nothing, or pensive) as my mind drifts in the wind.

The wind blows across the edges of my ears, whispering a low whistle of a song of rustling green leaves and babbling brooks that curve in strange looping spirals. Spirals that dash on rocks and sweep away unsuspecting bugs and birds that should be in the grass and in the sky.

The sky seems rather cloudy today. I furrow my brow at the strong smell of dirt, the one that usually comes before the rain, like lightning before thunder. But that does not make any sense. The weather forecast said sunny weather for the next week at least. But I suppose nature does not necessarily need to follow a schedule.

I wish it did.

"Boom, crash," a thousand voices scream and a thousand drums rumble. I startle, and the wizened tree groans as a gale storms through the forest. Tears of red drip from its foliage as it cries at its attacker, its branches flailing at the fiend in anguish and the wood writhing and snapping in such a grotesque manner that I feel the urge to throw up.

I duck down further as a stray branch whips mere inches beside my face, my hands clutching my notebook high in the air like a shield of old, and my fingers quickly become slick with rain.

Well, I think to myself wryly as rain drips down my face, it is probably time to head back.

I stand up and march forward, forlornly holding my ruined notebook over my head as mud squelches beneath my shoes in a sickening 'plop'. The car was just across the clearing and a minute away as the crow flies. But the clearing had other ideas. The wind blows. The ground shakes. I trip.

My elbows scrape on the grass and my face slams into the mud. With a groan I pick myself up, wincing at the grittiness of the mud underneath my clothes and mourning the worn (now dead) pair of shoes. When I look up from the disaster that struck my wardrobe, a wall of dirt slams into view.

My eyes wide, I wonder hysterically for a second if perhaps I did not actually pick myself up. I turn my head and discover two intersecting tunnels. I look up and see the thunderous sky. I check my pocket. I frown.

My hand gropes around in the mud before finding a rectangular blob of kaput electronics. I groan. I can't call for help. I stand and look up again.

So I have to get myself out

"Climbing out of a sinkhole wasn't on my agenda this morning," I gripe to myself as I bury a hand in the clay and experimentally push down. "A croissant, yes, A cup of coffee, absolutely." I put my other hand above my head and pulled myself up, the dirt shifting slightly but not giving way.

"'Sam, why don't you draw something, Sam, the weather looks nice outside, Sam, go outside and draw something I swear to God,'" I grumble as I kick a foot into the wall, then put the first hand up, then the other foot, then the second hand. I fall into a rhythm of climbing and griping in short order, which is helped by the fact that the rain doesn't seem to get into the tunnel system I'd fallen into. For some reason I do not find any roots, but I discount it as luck (poor, bad, eh, it's all terrible luck).

"I was drawing clouds and happy tree friends like Bob Ross, but Mother Nature decided nope and threw me down twelve feet under the earth." I look up and see that there is only half a foot left, and I sigh with relief. "But I say nope to Mother Nature, so there." I throw up my hand in triumph, ready to get out of the sinkhole.

But my hand hits something transparent. "What," I murmur to myself as I bring my hand back, then reach out and and touch that something again. I put my hand against the clear surface and splay my fingers, smearing mud on the...glass.

"This doesn't make sense."

A bright light suddenly appears and blares into my eyes. I recoil and barely catch myself before I could slip. I squint, and green after images project onto the orange insides of my eyelids. "Ow."

I cautiously open them again, looking at the dirt and away from the light so that my eyes could adjust. Then I look up again.

A giant child stares at me with a giant lamp and smile, its eyes ginormous and its star-speckled black hair wild. Then it laughs, putting its hands together in booming claps of...thunder, and reaching towards me- no, the box, in all too familiar grabby hand gestures.

The ground shakes, and I find myself looking into one of its eyes. Then the child grins, the eye crinkling with deep, innocently sadistic amusement, and dread sets in. Oh no.

The ground goes up slowly, then down, repeating in an increasingly frantic fashion. I scream in fear as my hands are torn from their holds and I slam against the glass and fall. I faceplant in the mud again, and the rain miraculously starts back up again, the lightning and thunder flashing and crashing in a terrifying disco sequence.

Laughter booms, the ground bounces, air whirs, and thunder crackles, and the only thing I can think as the child continues to shake and jab and poke and in general play with the box like a kid with a new toy is "Damn. Is this what it's like to be an ant?"

I liked playing with ant farms as a kid. I also liked playing with Etch a Sketches. Welp. Not anymore.