Freak storm (Weekend freewrite)

I had barely stepped out of the church when I felt the first drop on my head. I looked up and saw the weirdest thing ever - the sky was covered in big fluffy pink clouds. I mean really pink, just like giant marshmallows floating above our heads. People stopped in wonder, laughing and pointing at the sky, stretching their arms like overexcited children, welcoming the pink rain, for the drops were of a bright pink, too. So were the puddles that soon materialized in the heavy summer downpour. Father Lambert stood under the heavy arch of the church doors, surrounded by a few old ladies watching with worried faces the freakish rain and the general madness on the street.

I looked around hoping to see Frank, as we had agreed he'd meet me after service and we'd go grab a pizza for lunch. He was not religious, but he never objected to my going to church every Sunday. 'It's not worth fighting over', he had proclaimed early in our marriage. I thought it was, but let it slide.
In less than five minutes, I was drenched, my blue dress, now of a light purple shade, clinging to my bare legs. No way we could go out for lunch now, so I decided to hurry home and texted Frank I'll meet him there. The commotion had died down already, only the children were still running around jumping into the puddles, decided to make the most of this extraordinary event.
They shouldn't have worried as the pink rain was only the beginning of the general madness that swept through our town. I was among the least affected - my ears grew twice as large and turned green, you cannot imagine how silly that made me look, but at least that didn't change my life in a dramatic way. By early evening, Frank discovered he could only move around jumping like a frog. And only spoke French, a language no one in our little community knew, not even him.

Some people can eat beans with abandon and never suffer side effects. Frank was not one of them. As our pizza plans had been cancelled by the pink rain, I was forced to improvise and soon came to regret my decision to open a can of baked beans. Just imagine a big bearded frog jumping around the living room in a panic, releasing stinky farts that sounded like cannonball fire to my over-sized ears. Not to mention he was getting quite pissed I didn't understand what he was shouting in French.
I tried calling my mother for help, but that didn't turn out well. She could hardly speak as every time she opened her mouth psychedelic mice flew out and if there's one thing my mother hates it's rodents of every kind or color. And that was not all. As my crazy sister was away with a guy she had just met, Mom was taking care of her two kids. The eldest, Louise, was screaming her head off because in the space of two hours she had grown an impressive red beard. Her younger brother Hank was happy as can be as he'd grown a foot taller and he could easily pass for a teenager, although he was two months short of turning ten.
Calling 911 didn't seem like a good option, far too embarrassing to explain that your husband is turning into a French frog, not to mention that by evening he was quite drunk. When I finally made the call, I was put on hold indefinitely. I imagined they must be swamped by calls, but the truth was Julie, the switchboard operator, had just had a stroke of genius and was furiously writing down a Greek tragedy.
It was a sleepless night for most of the town, but come Monday morning we all had jobs to go to. Not that anybody worked that day. How could they? Only one of the girls that worked with me at the beauty parlor showed up and she was sporting a squirrel's tail, poking out of green uniform. The other girl was in bed watching a documentary on iguanas that was being broadcasted straight to her brain. It was either the iguanas or a rerun of the Celebrity Chef season finale that was showing on the other channel in her head.

'Remember that not all is sweet', my mother blurted to no one in particular, sending forth an explosion of vividly colored mice. The house was full of them and the cat was hiding under the bed, watching them in terror. Pragmatic as always, Mom had decided to ignore the pests scurrying all over the place and was making lasagna. Louise had braided her beard tying it with a green bow, while her brother, who had suddenly outgrown his clothes, had salvaged a pair of blue overalls his father had left behind before splitting. Frank had not come with me, as he was too frustrated no one understood him. He had tried writing something down, but all he had managed was a neat row of hieroglyphs. I tried very hard not to laugh, but it was just too much. Squiggly line, three dots and some sort of fish - that's what his message read. Frank did not think it was funny and jumped off to the kitchen, slamming the door in protest.
Mom offered me some lasagna to take home to Frank, but even as she said that she dissolved into an unstoppable fit of laughter. 'I don't suppose frogs eat lasagna!'
The doctors at our local hospital shrugged and sent people away. Nothing they could do. Except for Mrs. Murphy whose mouth was clenched shut and needed an IV drip. Her husband was quite happy on the other hand, as his wife talked way too much, usually in a shrill voice. He hand't been out in the pink shower and was unaffected.
So was the priest, but his attempt to find a divine meaning in what was happening was quite unconvincing. Not even he could keep a straight face saying it was God's wrath that had turned his flock into a colorful assortment of mutants. Really, how could he say such a thing in front of the Pattinson widow, a most pious woman who now sported a pair of green antennas, like a comic book alien. The antennas seemed to serve no purpose other than wiggle to the sound of music. She had tried hiding them under a hat, but that made them unbearably itchy.
The mayor took to the streets telling people to keep calm. Soil samples had been sent to the laboratory and they will soon have a cure for the mysterious plague. Nobody took him serious as he had grown a long beak and spoke like Justin Bieber.
The government wanted to send in troops, but the soldiers were caught in a pink thunderstorm, which turned them into midgets.
For now, I'm taking French lessons. Frank has apologized for his angry outbursts and bought me a pair of earrings. Everybody calls me Dumbo now.

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge, the weekend three prompts special. Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

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Images: 1, 2, 3.