The young, Caucasian boy with blond hair sat in his little cubby hole on comfortable green pillows, gazing at his red toy truck which lay dormant, having been untouched for hours now. The truck was located in the center of the child’s room on a striped carpet.
As the young boy slowly turned his head to glance out of the window beside him, fear and shock simultaneously gripped his heart. Out on his family’s farm he saw a vicious tornado tearing through the cornfield. It seemed to have an unnatural movement pattern. He noticed the most miniscule details about the torrent of wind in front of him. It looked like it was made of clouds, having the very distinct creamy white colour to it and the colour made him feel nostalgia for the time when he went cloud watching with his parents. The tornado seemed to touch the heavens rising up above the storm that accompanied it. The now curious boy noticed the tornados interesting cone like structure to which he thought of an ice cream cone of wind.
As he looked towards the ground infront of the whirlwind of air, he noticed the havoc and devastation it had caused. The crops were being torn off of the farmland, sending them in every direction possible, making a mockery of the hard work put into maintaining the farm. The path of the cone of wind looked like a warzone where destruction had passed.
The men who worked on the farm and the boy’s muscular, dark-haired father ran around frantically trying to secure the animals in the bright red barn. The animals resisted furiously with a wild look in their eyes; cows, pigs, and chickens ran in every direction.
The last thing the young boy’s eyes fell on was the families bright red truck, lying in the middle of the field, on its side.