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literature
Rain
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Literature Text
Clouds unperceivably tall and wide veil the moon and stars from sight. Rolling, seething within and without one another, plotting for turmoil to descend upon the mirrored obscurity; a chilling, forlorn wind whispers secrets the sky would rather wait to reveal. Words preconscious — scolding the cobblestone laid wide, a cruel caressing of the street-chasm. Emptiness. Vast, open darkness. Not a single light from a window. Will-o’-the-wisps. Only staggered orbs of lamp-flame provide waypoints on the street.
Footfalls fall silent. Left, right. Left, right, one after the other, metronomes contemplative in their pendulum arcs. Pressing forward, past buildings, across intersections… Drip. Pause, looking around. Emptiness. Wind grows, buffets, and begins to sing a song of ghosts. Drip. Of course there’s no one out; the sun had long since left. With reluctance, begin moving again, each step laden with regret.
Drip. Sparse rain accumulating, painting cobblestone the color of shadow. Drip. Drip. Steady descent, impersonal descent; to fall is its purpose. Thunder speaks muffled in the distance and decrescendos, crescendos. It is as if they converse with each other. It is as if it is heartless coincidence. Approaching thunder. Portamento wind. Rain heavy, heavier. Darker and darker until ground and sky gaze at each other in ruin. And in-between, the Will-o’-the-wisp lights seem like a mirage, shimmering through the torrent of water. Can you feel it, the sadness hidden inside each little droplet? These are tears, the tears of those who couldn’t, wouldn’t cry, their misery speaking a language that only God understands.
Lightning rends the sky, tears into it, blisters and boils the rain it strikes near. Thunder, declamatory, here, there, closer and not, echoing. Exit the town, leaving the orbs of flame behind. Darkness ahead, save a far-away pinprick. Walking forward, straight ahead, trying to ignore it. Closer. Closer. Thunder louder, louder, marking the approach. This tiny flame — the sight of it becomes as entrancing as a siren’s melody.
Stop. On the road, in front of a small cabin. Rain. But the light’s flickering is its own. Candle. Limning though an old sepia window. A derelict place, dry, pale wood. Warm light, a protracted stare into it. Shouldn’t be here. The cabin beckoning, the flick’ring flame whisp’ring sanctuary, sanctuary. Rain becomes downpour. Shouldn’t be here.
Break the trance. Must away. Cold rain falls and thunder echoes, resonating, cleansing. Walking forward. Left, right. Left, right, away from the town and the light, away from the cabin. The storm envelops. Walking ahead, into the shadow, down the cobblestone street, never looking back.
Footfalls fall silent. Left, right. Left, right, one after the other, metronomes contemplative in their pendulum arcs. Pressing forward, past buildings, across intersections… Drip. Pause, looking around. Emptiness. Wind grows, buffets, and begins to sing a song of ghosts. Drip. Of course there’s no one out; the sun had long since left. With reluctance, begin moving again, each step laden with regret.
Drip. Sparse rain accumulating, painting cobblestone the color of shadow. Drip. Drip. Steady descent, impersonal descent; to fall is its purpose. Thunder speaks muffled in the distance and decrescendos, crescendos. It is as if they converse with each other. It is as if it is heartless coincidence. Approaching thunder. Portamento wind. Rain heavy, heavier. Darker and darker until ground and sky gaze at each other in ruin. And in-between, the Will-o’-the-wisp lights seem like a mirage, shimmering through the torrent of water. Can you feel it, the sadness hidden inside each little droplet? These are tears, the tears of those who couldn’t, wouldn’t cry, their misery speaking a language that only God understands.
Lightning rends the sky, tears into it, blisters and boils the rain it strikes near. Thunder, declamatory, here, there, closer and not, echoing. Exit the town, leaving the orbs of flame behind. Darkness ahead, save a far-away pinprick. Walking forward, straight ahead, trying to ignore it. Closer. Closer. Thunder louder, louder, marking the approach. This tiny flame — the sight of it becomes as entrancing as a siren’s melody.
Stop. On the road, in front of a small cabin. Rain. But the light’s flickering is its own. Candle. Limning though an old sepia window. A derelict place, dry, pale wood. Warm light, a protracted stare into it. Shouldn’t be here. The cabin beckoning, the flick’ring flame whisp’ring sanctuary, sanctuary. Rain becomes downpour. Shouldn’t be here.
Break the trance. Must away. Cold rain falls and thunder echoes, resonating, cleansing. Walking forward. Left, right. Left, right, away from the town and the light, away from the cabin. The storm envelops. Walking ahead, into the shadow, down the cobblestone street, never looking back.
This piece is meant to be grouped into a set with two other works of mine: "Resplendent Dawn" and "Mystic Singularity." I haven't yet decided on the order of them.
Edit: This piece will actually be part of a narrative cycle, which will include "Mystic Singularity" but not "Resplendent Dawn." More word on that later.
Edit: This piece will actually be part of a narrative cycle, which will include "Mystic Singularity" but not "Resplendent Dawn." More word on that later.
© 2015 - 2024 Resplendent-Dawn
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I like your style!