Aurde Jeauno owns the attraction behind the walls as the town mechanic. His patrons await upon a bench by the door to his shop of Wonder Oil. Behind the auto bay, down a halled gift shop is a secondary attraction for those who’ve made it to Mishaven. Mishappeningly arrived they are among the happy and glad. A broken down car does bring them very far.
A car wax pitched with magic tricks and slights of hand. “How did you do that,” was the question asked. “Oh, we work for Wonder Oil, Aurde taught us all. We sell a wax whose shine is the max.”
The Michellan Man arrival team amidst tornadoes of fingerling wind currents be, to arrive at Mishaven is to escape the storm just at its border walls. The storm hovers above and swirls it does, mixing water with air and dirt from around there, the colors dark and bare. It howls and moans, it grudgingly groans, encircling its foes, the townfolks Mishaven.
Because all who arrive at the Wonder Oil store soon discover the escape from their own misbehaving. A sanctuary for all amidst small town nostalgia, a portal in time to rescue sublime. Along Route 66, its exit can’t be missed. A happen chance to escape the storm in travels, becoming one with Mishaven, there is no mistaking. The kicks did kick them in.
For all who arrive are welcomed in kind. They all become employees of Wonder Oil. United their purpose of escape from the worstest, a tornado town caught in Nostaligia’s ground. Nostaligia is its name, the tornado its game. To find shelter in the basement is its wonder in amazement. A basement unknown. The tornado rages on. An unending storm over a town no more. The town of Mishaven. Portal entrance, its taking.
Women on a bench awaiting cars to be fixed. Men from a far, no motor for their car. Amixed their benched is fixed in the town of Mishaven. The storm rages on. They sit and watch in all hours, the funnel clouds and their howls. But one has a say in the trouble and dismay. The proprietor owner, Wonder Oil, Aurde Jeauno.
For he was the first upon storm clouds aburst to bring shelter of the few who left town not then too. What was to last a few hours has brought nothing but showers, carpets of rain, driving winds of insane. The tornado does hover, over above and beyonder, any reach of a car of Nostalgia’s bar.
For in his time yet, the proprietor has met many more who’ve arrived, the mystery still in stride. Many papers he wrote with instructions of note, of the storm matters ways, of Nostalgia’s say. Night and day he does work for an escape from this book, written in time for Mishaven, the wondrous mislavened.
Until one day there arrived a man like all kind who could look at his work, bring some sense of its worth. An employee becomes a citizen from above, plopped in Mishaven for Nostaligia’s behaving. To look at the problem of a town caught in lockdown, the numbers are added, what few will solve the addage?
For the storm is so close, its covering so most pausing in effect ones hand can reach its core net. To pull from a funnel a storm seedling in rumble is a side show attraction, no others can match it. To hold a thundering blossom so gray in ones hands, to toss it, to play with it, to mold it and stand. The impossible at play, the wonderings unfold. A town, its people, no escape, unreal.
A storm directing, no end detecting. Yet the storm is yeilding its processes revealing. To be stuck in the muck of a storm chasers luck, a sunrise a swirl, a sunset a whirl. No light from above but the thundering grumble of a pause in long time of Nostalgia in rhyme. White, gray, and black attack stuck in suspended animation, like a kitten in mid air. It does swirl, it does whirl, its destination it does stay, Mishaven is its way. No winds but its own caught in a dome alone with a town, its people, a time. The time of the dime caught in time. Nostalgia’s giggle. The town folks wiggle. Wiggly waggers of giggle’s gaggers.
