Scrawl-Shorts: Atmospheric Distortions

The light on the answering machine had been blinking persistently for well over an hour before I finally checked it. Upon attending to it, I immediately heard my friend, Trent Davis, uttering deliberate throat-clearing noises from the machine's tiny speaker. This made the third time he had called me that day.

"Hey, Joe! I know you're sitting there ignoring me. Why can't you just pick up the friggin' phone for once? You've had the thing for over three years now, and you've never answered a single one of my calls. Anyway, listen...I know you're busy writing those cheesy romance novels of yours, and you know how I'm "dying" to read them, but I think there's something over here you might want to see. The Fritz's next door have somewhat of a situation in their backyard. They're gathering the neighbors and I think you might want to check this out, too. See ya in a bit." *BEEP*

I sat down on the couch and weighed options for about 10 minutes before finally pulling on a coat and setting off down the street to the Fritz's house. A situation? On this block? It seemed very unlikely, but at the same time, quite catching.

The air was substantially thicker outside than it has been in the house and a strong head wind beat at my face all the way up to the neighbor's backyard gate. Without warning, a dachshund flew past my ear and landed in a shrub in front of the house with a distinctive *piff*. I stepped into the backyard and saw a cluster of about five other people, huddled over a hole in the ground, a few of whom were muttering things about aliens and the government. Strange as it may be, the strong wind appeared to be coming from that hole...as well as another dachshund. A brief pop sounded through the yard as this next dog was catapulted over the roof of the house into who-knows-what on the other side.

Trent noticed me and walked over shaking his head.

"Have you ever seen a dog fly that high?" he asked.

"Not recently," I replied. "How long has this been going on?" Before Trent could answer, yet another dachshund exploded from the hole and was hurled over the opposite fence, causing a piercing explosion to erupt from next door. Trent and I watched as a fireball the size of a city bus wafted over us. The yard was tinged with red but remained cool since the draft emanating from the hole was still blowing everything out.

As we gazed up at the spectacular pyrotechnic show, a large white van screamed to a halt a on the curb outside. A dozen or so men clad in white jump suits swarmed out of the back and into the yard where the dachshunds continued to fly. Each of the men carried a shovel with them and had a burlap sack tucked into their belts. On their left shoulders, they wore a bright green patch that identified them with the Ministry of Plenty. Methodically, they backed everyone away from the hole and began to dig with rapid intensity.

Dachshunds and large chunks of sod were strewn about the yard. When the hole was about a yard in diameter, the men hopped in with their sacks and proceeded to fill them with the puzzled wiener dogs. Then, as soon as they had arrived, they jumped back into their van and roared off. Trent grinned at me and mentioned something about my career while I stared in amazement at the hole that now dominated the once pleasant little yard. The draft had diminished at last and the neighbors were shuffling back to their houses when yet another "situation" developed.

Doug Fritz was staring with dismay at his $2000 landscaping job gone to ruin, when his body suddenly jumped into his head and vanished before my eyes. All that was left was a dazed, blinking head, and that was gone just as quickly. A dachshund flew in front of my face and was likewise dispatched. Trent yelled a stream of curse words and wrapped himself around a nearby tree as a cloud of dirt and sod swirled into the air and began to disappear like water down a drain. Something in the air over my head was sucking up the community.

Following my friend's lead, I hugged a tree and watched as the water tower beyond the fence was bent grotesquely and yielded to the strange atmospheric forces at hand. Yet another van pulled up to the house. This time it was jet black, and the men that piled out of the sliding doors were wearing oxygen masks and lead boots. Their emblem boldly pronounced them as the local Vortex Control Squad. I had never heard of them. Nevertheless, they set to work immediately and began hurling debris into the air.

By this time, not much was left of Doug Fritz's lot or of his $2000 landscaping...in fact, the entire block had been pretty much reduced to swirling rubble. The Vortex Control Squad was busy feeding the monstrous atmospheric distortion, had tapped the nearest fire hydrant, and were now feverishly blasting the thing with huge hoses. A thought flashed through my mind and made me question the meaning of forming such a bizarre squad as this. There was a scream and I turned my head to see a high powered jet of water twist in mid air and blast a member of the team right into the vortex. Then, without apparent reason, the vortex diminished and finally dissipated.

Not even stopping to clean up, the Vortex Control Squad crammed back into their van and drove off to their next call wherever that may have been. Trent was still plastered to what remained of his tree and began joking about not leaving messages on my answering machine anymore. Obviously, with the entire community having been consumed since an hour ago, my phone, answering machine, and romance novels, were all gone as well. Wearily, I dropped back to the ground and began pacing around looking for remnants of my former house. A dachshund popped out of the ground.