Tuesday, October 25, 2011

The Rain

A short story:

The rain pounded down heavily. It was nearly a waterfall. The drops soaked things to the core. Inside it was warm and orange though. The rain came down on a house that didn't care. It beat the pavement, demanding to be heard. The purple black night, for all its chaos and anger, retreated from the light that glowed steadily out of the windows.

Laughter rang out from the kitchen, a chair screeched against a floor. Someone shuffled. The white noise of a blanket held over a body. More laughter, a group of friends, unaware of the time on the microwave. The weak green digital reading said the early morning. The energy of the house said it didn't matter.

A drawer opened, silver clinking against silver, the taps of a fork against a counter.

The rain pounded on, demanded to be heard. It formed deep puddles, hidden in the darkness. The streets reflected streetlights, shimmering as the storm covered them with water. A flood of Biblical proportions threatened, louder the pounding came as the water fell faster.

The red door of the house opened, light streamed out, parting the darkness. Two shapes appeared; dashed to the car. The pounding of rain on a car, steady and rhythmic. Doors slamming shut. Giggling and laughter. A deep exhale as seatbelts were pulled over many awkward layers. The beeps and dings of a car about to start.

A car engine sputtering, grinding, pushing into gear. The gentle vibration of an engine, the low rumble of a motor. The blasting wafting of the heater. The squeak, swoosh of the wipers. The rain demanded attention. The friends brushed it aside with the wipers. It was darkness but for the headlights, tears streamed down the side windows. Vague settings passed beside the car everything but the few feet of road ahead was indistinct.

The rain continued to call from the darkness, carving its name in the soft soil. It pulled down the leaves of the trees. The rain called forth the worms who reveled in the moisture. The car drove on, unaware of the movement in the night. The rain was a dynamic force, changing everything around it. The car was a moving home, holding the sounds of two friends singing along to a song on the radio. The rain could not be heard.

The car stopped. There were no streetlights. There were no houses. The car turned off. And everything human was still. The rain shuddered angrily, made its barrage louder. I am here it called. But the two friends who sat in quiet for a moment felt so alone, isolated by the rain and the fog. The deep purple black night hid them from the real world. An empty and infinite sea. There was nothing beyond the tear streaks of the windows, the layers of cloth pressed down by seatbelts; the gentle breathing of the companion in the other seat. And the two listened to the rain and found it peaceful.