It was July in Tornado Alley, and I was bored. I wasn’t hot because I kept myself at altitude in the clouds most of the time. And today was a particular scorcher over Garnett, Kansas, southwest of Topeka.
I had cloud surfed to the top of the cumulonimbus anvil, and now gathered up the cloud material, condensing it on itself and using a modest wind to keep it aloft as it transformed from cloud, with minute ice crystals, to snowflakes. I gathered all that snow together in a circulating flurry until I had enough.
I dove through the cloud stack faster than gravity could take me, pulling the snow in my wake. I also projected wind ahead, a cold, icy breeze from 40,000 feet that even the summer sun would take time to warm up. I dove straight for a farm on the outskirts, where a farmer and his family tried to keep at their work despite the blistering heat.
I dove on down to just a few thousand feet, and then turned sharply, letting the snow drift I had created plummet down in one giant heap, burying the farmer’s house and barn in three feet of snow.
The family and their neighbors would know of the snow, but by the time any news agency got out to the remote farm, the snow would all be melted. No one would believe it had snowed so intensely on one tiny farm in the middle of July.
I soared down a little lower, and then gave a wave as the farmer’s kids pointed at him and looked up.
They’ll never believe a man can ride a cloud, either.