Original story: Creating Drama on the Road

I spy with my little eye...space. Miles and miles of space. Space enough to stretch my cramping legs, run my body to fatigue, and make snow angels in the dirt until I find just the right position to snooze in the hot sun. Whenever little pellets of sweat would form on my face, the cool breeze would wipe them clean. I could rest comfortably listening to the barns creak, the windmills swoosh, and the cicadas buzz. The earth below would subtly shift my body the six hours across the border to the edge of the Rockies without disturbing this reverie.

That would be nice, I think turning my head from the window back to the Chevy Cavalier stuffed with gummy bears, pillows, coolers, and restless children. Dad is focused on the road. He knows this western stretch of I-70 and how to make up for lost time. The man might as well be a trucker the number of American highways he's been down.

We usually listen to his stories in between Yanni, Culture Club, and The Beatles. He plays the Spice Girls and Led Zeppelin back-to-back, impervious to shame and unconcerned with sanctity. At this point, everyone silent and bored, I would ordinarily ask him to retell his boyhood adventure of crossing the railroad bridge to the ice cream shop. I always envisioned his story as a scene from Stand By Me. At that moment, however, our eyes widen and our bladders fill as we see the horror miles up the road--traffic. This is not Atlanta. This is not Los Angeles. This is West Kansas, no place for cars to pile up.

"God damn it!" My dad huffs through his clenched teeth. "Wouldn't you fucking know it," he bobs his head distinctly on each syllable. We are all tense, but he adds to the discomfort by screaming at what is inconveniencing him--road work. They closed the left lane, so everyone has to merge into the right, creating a bottleneck. We sit, arm pits sweaty despite the full-blasting air conditioning, fixated on the minute progress of the lane.

Focused west on freedom, we don't immediately notice that the sky begins darkening, losing its trademark blue and pillowy white clouds. We notice when some jackass isn't watching the road and holds up traffic needlessly. My dad honks, but it isn't just that car. Passengers up ahead are all looking right, so we do.

"Whoa," my sister says.

There is no siren, no hail, no train chug. I can't hear what I see, although it seems close enough to warrant some noise. A few miles north of I-70 greenish-gray clouds hover over the field of soft wheat. Then, it was as if God intentionally poked two fingers through the smoke to create two swirling funnels. He didn't have to do it. He could have stopped midway in his reach, pulled up quickly and dissipated the storm. Tornadoes can be fickle that way, but these two were committed to touching down and widening their bases.

We stare, nose to glass trying not to blink. For all my life living in Tornado Alley, I had never actually seen these swirling beasts. I had to crouch in the basement countless times to the haunting call of the tornado siren. There was even that time my dad raced us to Mom's with balls of ice pounding the windshield. In the suburbs, it's always dark when they hit, so the tornadoes are amorphous winds that pull your trees down and your roof off. Out on the prairie, these two are in full form.

I feel so cool. Watching the big one grow larger and the smaller one try to keep up, my eyes are transfixed. Not only have I seen a tornado now, but I have seen two tornadoes form. Bree is seven, but she doesn't cry. Aislynn, my dad and I aren't scared either. We are excited.

As the traffic scoots forward, the tornadoes seem fixed in one place like the sun. I grow used to the image and less fascinated by the sight. I now take breaks staring at the dirty gray tunnels to size up the scene. Traffic is still keeping pace with a box turtle. The landscape is true-to-its-stereotype flat, save for the ditches running along the interstate. There's a disconcerting lack of structure to crouch behind or under.

"Dad what if they start coming our way?" I inquire. "I'll pull to the side of the road, bypass the traffic and get the hell out of Dodge if we have to," he sounds empowered by his answer. Listening, I squint my eyes and make a clicking noise, tapping my tongue to my palate. A sedan off-roading in the ditch, trying to out run the trucks and SUVs. Nope, this Cavalier just won't do. If the tornadoes decide to make a name for themselves, we're fucked. This should bother me more, probably, but I make peace with dying in rural Kansas. Really, I'm ready for more excitement. C'mon tornadoes give us a thrill. Instead, the stalemate continues.

Damn. That's too bad, I say to myself seeing the left lane open again. The drivers waiting in line to speed down the newly opened lane alternate quick glances between the threatening clouds and open stretch of asphalt almost in their reach. It feels climatic when we reach our turn to start going 60 again. Although the tornadoes haven't moved much, I create a little excitement for myself. Are you we going to make it, are we going to make it?

We do. We get miles ahead of our construction impediment. My sisters and I are staring out the rear window keeping watch in case the tornadoes switch direction. This is when I see my bag fly off the roof into the road behind us.

"Dad stop! My bag fell off the caaarrr!" I hold the last word for dramatic effect. He stops to the side of the road, and I quickly volunteer to retrieve the luggage. This is my moment. I leap out of the side door, bare feet slapping the asphalt, my arms straight blades as I sprint east on the interstate. I'm running right at the tornado, I fantasize. The tornadoes look more like a distant storm at this point, but I know I'm a bad ass. When I reach my duffle , I waste little time. I crouch down, grab it, and spring up. My pace has slowed under the weight of the unnecessary clothes and toys packed in the shapeless knapsack. I have a serious look on my face, yet a twinkle in my eye. I imagine the scene outside my body. It's just like Twister. I'm running full-throttle towards the car. My family swings their arms, their mouths move in slow motion, and they are crying as they watch the tornadoes spin after me. My dad puts the key in the ignition. One door is open for me to leap in at the last moment. They worry: Is she going to make it? Is she going to make it?