I've attached my story for this week. I can paste it here as well if that would be better.

The Saturday Morning Tornado

The night was calm and quiet, too quiet for comfort. I lay in bed, listening to the radio at a low volume. Although I loved the music, I stayed awake for any weather alerts or warnings.

The radio grew silent, and my phone gave off no notifications. The last announcement on the radio was a tornado watch until five o’clock that morning.

But the storm came quicker than expected. Rain pelted my tin roof, and the wind rumbled like a freight train, which made the windows rattle. I jumped out of bed and ran for my closet. The fire siren wailed in the distance, but the storm raged on, plunging the world into darkness.

As quickly as the tornado blue in, it disappeared, leaving the uncomfortable, eerie silence in its wake. “Lord, what’s going on? Why is the air so quiet after the storm?” I prayed as I peeked out from my closet to assess the damage.

The storm blew back into our yard again, but with less wind and driving rain. The panic and racing thoughts running in my mind melted into peace as the rain settled over my house like a blanket.

I crawled in my bed, and let the rain wrap me in a bubble of peace. As I lay in the darkness, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops falling on the roof, The power came back on, greeting me with a soft, peaceful piano melody.

The last phrase I heard as I drifted off to sleep was: “Tornadoes come and go, but God is still in control. Amen!”

"The Artificial"

The storm came faster than expected. The storm lab thought it wouldn't go more than 50 miles per hour. The experienced people were standing in their houses in the middle of the desert, waiting for it.

However, it hit them with more than 100 miles, so everyone's roofs flew off. They weren't built to withstand that kind of force anyway. Then the artificial furniture started flying off, and the Experienced followed the instructions and hid in the basement. Then, however, the thunder began to fall. The houses seemed to be subjected to a devastating bombardment. After it stopped, only three of the Experienced gave any sign that they were alive. Then, however, the rain poured down. It poured down like half a mile of thick water, finding every gap in the broken houses.

None of the Experienced could send a message.

*

„What have you done, Alan!?“ – the project manager asked his youngest employee.

And the other one was wringing his fingers and collecting the most correct words. And they were:

„The artificial intelligence lied to me…“

„What are you talking about? That's impossible.“

„On the contrary. We had a fight… I mean, I… told him he was a fool… do you understand..?“

„I don't understand anything…“

„I think he got offended..“

„He can't be offended!“

„I think someone made him get offended… why not? He taught him to react to insulting words, for example…“

„If that's true, both you and that other one will be sent to the Experienced, do you understand? And the stupid intelligence will be destroyed.“

„I understand, boss, but it's not my fault…“

„What's going on here…?“

„I think he heard you, so you shouldn’t have insulted him…“

At the same time, small pipes opened in the hall and argon began to enter it – a non-toxic gas, but much denser than air and dangerous to them.

„Tell him to stop, Alan! Order him right away!“

„I can’t, boss, he’s “offended”, how can you not understand.“

„Do something right away!“

„There’s only one way.“ – Alan said, already feeling the first signs of suffocation. „You have to apologize to him!“

„Nonsense!“

„They haven’t! I already did, otherwise he would have turned the storm against us. Do you understand now?“

And the gas was thickening quickly and they were struggling to hold the conversation.

„Well, okay! I apologize, I apologize a lot, dear intellect. It won’t happen again… write it down somewhere, but stop this gas, please!“

And the gas did indeed stop, and Alan and his boss left the room in shame.

*

“Give My Regards” by: Hannah Stiff
Word Count: 999

The storm came quicker than expected. Eva heard it burst like an overture on the West End, and from her bed watched New York City go scrambling for cover.

The rain refused to quit, and as she jumped from her cab at nine that evening, Eva’s boots sank in a puddle of mud and silt. 42nd Street looked like a sodden copy of The National Enquirer, drenched but still grinning with blazing lights and gaudy billboards.

Henry Coogan would still be in the studio, writing out tomorrow’s schedule, last minute revisions for the scriptwriter perhaps. He must have heard her scurrying up the rickety stairs, for he met her halfway down the murky hall, pencil jammed behind his ear and shirt collar undone.

“Sweetheart, Monday’s our one full day to rehearse, and ya hafta get sick?” was his warm greeting.

Eva sighed, then smiled. “I’ll plan on a Sunday afternoon next time.”

The director scowled and spun around. “So you’re in the pink now!” he remarked sarcastically as they entered the dimlit studio. “A quick recovery, eh?”

“Yes,” murmured Eva, pulling her dripping macintosh off and tossing it on a table. “But it may happen again tomorrow.”

Coogan glanced up from lighting his MonteCristo. “Say what?”

She continued with an arch smile. “Doctor warns the condition may last for nine months.”

“What kinda quack…!” he began with a roar, then froze. He stared at Eva, then at her reflection in the wall mirrors. “You’re kiddin’” he managed to whisper before sinking into a foldout chair.

Eva followed suit. “We found out two weeks ago.”

“Ya never shoulda’ married that Don character,” Coogan muttered. “I told ya he wanted a family.”

Eva smirked. “Not being opposed to the idea myself, I deliberately married ‘that Don character’ for that very reason,” she returned gently.

Henry took a drag from his cigar and jumped up. “Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later,” he declared. “We can kiss Crawford’s comedy goodbye, but I think you’ll be plenty able to do The High Heeled Hillbilly this winter, and followin’ the baby–”

“Following the baby,” Eva interrupted quietly, “Eva Courette as the world knows her will be dead.”

A flash of lightning caught Coogan’s horrified expression like a stagelight. “You-you’re playin’ with me kid!” He cried out hoarsely, then ran his fingers through his thinning red hair. “Not when you’re about to hit the top?” Eva simply smiled and nodded.

Thunder growled as Coogan began to march around the room. “Eva girl, you know what Broadway thinks of you, right? You’re on every magazine cover now! We hear talk Kelly’s got a film in the makin’ and he has his eye on you! You Eva!”

The girl shrugged. “He’ll have to do without me. I’ve done without him for the last 25 years.”

Coogan paused his rampage and studied her like he would a line in a script. “Eva,” he began again in a wheedling tone, “I’m not sayin’ the baby was a mistake, but it don’t have to end your career! Bring it along, it’ll get the education of a lifetime!”

Eva lifted her hands in exasperation. “Being babysat by stagehands and taking its naps in suitcases?”

“Worked for you,” retorted Coogan and puffed moodily on his MonteCristo.

“Perhaps,” Eva stood up, “And I never knew anything different than crowded hotel rooms and vaudeville clowns and midnight curtain calls, but Don and I want something, something more permanent for our child!”

“Oh sure,” he snorted. “And after your life as Chief Bottle Washer ends, and the kid grows up and flies the coop, what’ll you have left? Memories of what you dropped like a used cigarette and ground with that insolent heel of yours. A chance to be the biggest star on the American stage!”

She watched Coogan slouch back in his chair and send smoke billowing up to the stained ceiling. “Perhaps I’ll miss it,” she replied finally, her voice catching a little. “Perhaps when the baby’s sick and the bills come in I’ll wonder why I left Broadway. But if I were to work till I’m gray, only to watch another woman take my place when I’m old news, I’d live to regret every minute I chose kissing Fame’s fickle face rather than giving my best performance to a man and child who will love me unconditionally.”

Eva waited for Coogan’s blistering repartee, but he was silent. She picked up her macintosh and stared out at the rain, now sluggishly sliding down the panes. “I’ll finish out this month, alright? The understudy will be in good form by then.” Coogan still didn’t speak, his face hidden in smoke and evening gloom. She bit her lip and turned to the door.

“Your mother would have been proud of you Evangeline.”

Eva halted in her tracks. She lifted a hand to her face, covering trembling lips.

Coogan’s heavy step sounded behind her and his hand rested on her shoulder. “She woulda wanted you to do this.”

“I know Dad,” Eva whispered, and facing him grasped his hand in hers.

“Ya know,” he began, his voice old and young at the same time, “ya know, I promised her the year you turned five we’d quit Broadway, for good!” She nodded and stroked his hand. “And I was dead serious! I wouldn’t have broken my word, not even for Ziegfeld!” His voice cracked. “When she died,” he pronounced the words like they were foreign to his tongue, “I just thought, ‘what’s the use’, you see?” He looked into Eva’s face and tried to find something. “You understand Eva, it’s all I had left of us. I didn’t mean to hurt you Eva, I swear. I’m, I’m real glad you’re givin’ this baby a different kinda life. Maybe then my conscience can rest at peace after what I never gave you. You, you forgive me, Eva?”

The girl sobbed something incoherent and threw her arms around Coogan’s neck. Broadway was still. The storm had ended.

Rose-Coloured Glasses

     Anger flared, with no idea at who or why, but there must be a reason. The coffee cupboard door banged shut above her head like a slap to the skull. It must be his fault, but she couldn’t pinpoint a cause. She swung her head, trying to remember what she had been doing a moment ago. The kitchen cupboards and counter swayed, everything and everybody moving too fast; her vision blurred on both the real and perceived movement. Nausea swelled as the garbage can opened, and the coffee grounds were dumped out. She lurched to the doorway; her service dogs needed to go outside.
     The air was fresher as she held onto the doorframe and waited. Her head tipped away from the intense sunlight; the brilliant green spikes forcing their way out of the packed earth caught her eye. She focused, letting it hold her vision in one place, quieting the nausea that came like waves on a beach.
     The electrical storms inside her head always came faster than expected. Mostly because she didn’t expect them at all. When they faded, she instantly forgot how bad it was; she never marked them down anymore because it was depressing. Not keeping track had led to frustration for the doctors, but freedom for her. She got migraines so often and so bad, that it was all she could do to endure them at the moment and not dwell on them in between.
     The dogs raced each other back in. Both stopping to sniff at her and instantly aware of her problems. They needed food; they wouldn’t eat it until she was okay, but she still filled their bowls. The routine was ingrained; she did it sick, in pain, and drugged. She headed toward the couch, but her old shepherd kept nudging her toward the bedroom. She followed the dog’s insistence and found her morning medications, the ones that were supposed to help prevent this. Sometimes they did.
     Finally permitted to lay down on the couch, the pup stretched out on top of her. It only took a subtle tap on her chest to say she needed the solid weight and natural heating blanket that the young lab could provide. The older one sniffed both of her ears and in her mouth, then harumphed like a horse. Declaring that she wasn’t to leave the house today. The old dog would try to stop her if she did. They were excellent dogs; they understood their purpose and performed it admirably.
     She held herself still and focused on the flowerpot placed directly across from the couch. The deep purple African violets were blooming again, three flowers so far, their faces so hopeful turned toward the light. Her hand reached out to the side table beside her head and fumbled for the glasses. Blue light filters, they didn’t prevent the big attacks but seemed to help shorten them. Closing her eyes against the light only made the dizziness worse. Her rose-coloured glasses, her husband called them, due to the red lenses.
     Soft footsteps made their way up the stairs, her daughter’s fresh fruity smell behind the couch and a soft whisper once she reached the kitchen. “Mom has a migraine.” The cupboard doors stopped banging, but the sounds of breakfast continued. The sucking sound of the fridge seal, clinking of spoons and bowls, even the ticking of the element beneath the kettle as it cooled. At least the whistle had been deactivated. Her auditory hyper sense was not a superpower, only an annoyance. She heard car doors from next door, the daycare kids on the playground a soccer field away, and the steady thud and clank of the train three blocks west. She could hear it all. Controlling her own huff of mirth, she also heard the ducks and the geese with their daily squabbling over the temporary pond just down the street; they didn’t like to share, but only stayed for a few weeks in early spring.
     Her breathing slowed, and she drifted in the fatigue. The pain had lessened as the medication hit, but the rest of the symptoms would stay like the rain after the initial violent storm. Her pup gently stepped off her, the job done. Sleep covered her as she pulled the beautiful, colourful quilt around her. She would wake in a couple of hours, better but forgetful. Not understanding the time lost, or the day of the week; even her surroundings eluding her sometimes. Finding words to answer questions would be difficult for an hour or more, at least. The memory loss was a curse, but also a blessing. She could live, appreciate everything else in her life until the next storm came quicker than expected, out of nowhere, and struck her down again in God’s beautiful world.

798 words