I wrote a story, a sort of autobiographicalstory, about a family from New York, a microbiologist and his actress wife, and their son, who looked, and walked, and talked, and thought, and felt exactly like me. I sat in the backseat and they were driving across the Midwest, and they forgot me... at a gas station. We stopped for a rest stop... and they forgot me, and they drove away. I walked up the road that they had driven and suddenly the sky turned dark and... a tornado came up and it picked me up and it carried me and dropped me, uninjured, in the yard of a sanctified Brethren family. I knocked on the door and a woman in a white satingown holding a flaming torch came out and asked me what I wanted. And I was going to tell them that I had to leave to look for my parents and then the dog spoke to me. The dog said, "Stay." So, I stayed. But still, I missed the life of glamourthat I had known on New York's exclusiveUpper West Side. I love to write stories like that.我写了一个故事,自传式的故事,说的是一个纽约家庭,家里有一个微生物学家,当演员的妻子,还有他们的儿 子--那孩子的模样和走路、说话、思考的方式简直跟我一样。我坐在汽车的后座,他们开车穿越中西部,后来他们把我忘在了一个加油站。我们停车休息,然后他 们就把我给落下了,开车走了。我沿着他们车驶去的方向走着,突然间,天空暗了下来, 龙卷风大作,风卷起我吹啊吹,毫发不伤地把我扔在一个圣教徒家的后院里。我敲敲门,一个身穿白色缎袍的女人举着一把熊熊的火炬,走出来问我想干什么。我正 想说我想去找我的爸妈,一条狗冲着我说话了:“留下来吧。于是,我就留下了。但是,我还是很怀念在纽约高尚住宅区的好日子。我就喜欢写这样的故事。
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