Farah had had rather a large supper the night before, and ended
up sleeping straight through the flood warning.
When she awoke, the water was already sloshing through her floorboards.
“This is no good!” she exclaimed,
jumping off her bed to run look out the window.
But it was even worse outside: the water had risen up to leak through
the windows of cars, and there wasn’t a person to be seen.
“I have to get out of here, but
how?” Farah wondered. “Obviously, I can’t
drive, and that water looks too filthy to swim in. A makeshift raft? That would make me horribly seasick.” Her stomach gurgled, hungry after being
stuffed the night before, and she patted it reassuringly. “Of course, you’re right,” she said. “If I can’t escape by land or by sea, I’ll go
by air!”
There wasn’t much time, so Farah
dashed to the kitchen. She turned on the
stove and dumped a can of kidney beans in a pot to heat through. After some thought, she dumped in a dollop of
spaghetti sauce, two cloves of garlic, and an entire chopped-up onion.
There wasn’t any time to do more
than let the food warm before she ladled it straight into her mouth. She grimaced at the crunch of raw onion, but
she kept eating until not a drop remained.
Figuring the flood would wash the pot for her, Farah took her umbrella
and a book and headed to the roof to wait.
Farah had barely read a chapter,
wishing she’d thought to bring a lawn chair, before the water covered the tops
of the cars entirely and crept up to her stove to sizzled over the still-hot
burner. It was halfway up the stairs
when Farah’s stomach interrupted her with an uneasy gurgle.
Finding she couldn’t concentrate on
her book, Farah folded it and looked out at the rain instead, and at the funny
things floating past.
By the time the water bashed against the edge of the roof, Farah’s stomach was making noises like crazy, and her intestines had bloated uncomfortably. Farah retreated further, to perch on the chimney, her feet dangling. “Hurry up, digestion,” she said as the water rose . The water touched her toes, and she got up to stand on the chimney.
The water splashed and lapped over the chimney edge—but it was too late! The gases inside Farah’s body had finally become too much, and they lifted her off the chimney belly first. It felt awkward, floating like that and being rained on. (She had dropped her umbrella.) Then the wind gusted and lifted her farther up and away, carrying her who knew where.
“I’ll make my new home wherever I land,”
Farah told herself as she flew along, hair streaming below her. After a moment’s thought, she added, “I hope
they have good food.”
-
Author's Note: I woke up with this story in my brain. No, not autobiographical. I don't eat onions any more . . .
