Its twisted face, grey and angry, stretches across an area the size of a continent. Its hailstone teeth nibble the ocean surface, hungry for land. It picks up speed, its force quantified in categories and its breath measured in three digits. It is the child of a billion storms before it and the killer of millions.
Her face is calm and her skin is like delicate porcelain. Her teeth hide behind a smile of reassurance. She does not move, but lets the umbrella and gas mask flow in the irritated wind, hoping it will turn back of its own accord. She is alone. She remembers when our universe was just chemistry and physics, and time was yet to be born.
It has killed too many now. It has become too greedy. It cannot happen, not here, not again.
She laughs at it, for it is nothing. Today, the only death will be the death of a storm.
I won’t say much about this other than I dedicated the title to Voima Oy. Who then used the story to influence her one as a sort of dedication back. Hers was much better and got a lovely mention. So in a way I’m happy about the original story as well as being happy for Voima.