Rain

I don’t normally write flowery, dramatic monologues, but about a month a got I got inspired (from the language of Fahrenheit 451 and Shakespeare) and this was the result.

The Rain

The rain rages in mindless anger, dashing against choking walls, streaming down bricks, racing along pavement. Hard, cold drops stabbing though papered shelter, soaking clothing, battering skin, matting hair, coating all in icy reasonless fury. On and on and on, it pours, smashing, slashing, crashing…

The rumbles fade. Time slows. Leaden skies, weeping frigid tears. The wind howls about sharp corners, catching a soggy banner of smeared ink, tossing it against the alley walls, discarding it again. Softly now the drops fall, streaming quietly in bitter sorrow.

So much the desolate grayness sees. So much to weep for. The starved. The sick. The withered faces and infant cries. Shadowy figures, huddled against the wintery tears. Young lips, so cold. Ancient eyes, so blank. The men, with death in their eyes and life in their hands. Hearts of despairing hope and sight already veiled with darkness.

But hark. A light. A wind. The drops twist and dance. A fleeting smile. A fragmented laugh. The flicker of hope. Molten drops of silver and gold. The pavement a polished floor. The grimed walls a bejeweled passage.

Faces uplifting. Eyes opening wide. Murmuring laughter, washing clean the earth. Caressing shivering skin. Soothing trembling limbs.

Drop by drop, the rain quickens. The light fades. Shadows grow. Darker, thicker, the anger returns. The rumbling rage, keeping time with the tramp of boots. Stark lighting bolts glint off polished steel. Metal glitters, slicing the rain’s protective embrace.

Still the mist falls, thicker and faster, veiling the eyes of those who wait. Those who hide. A thunderous crash to cover the crack of weapons. A shattering roar. Lashing wind, slamming rain against the stained steel and streaming coats. Retreating coats. Fading steps.

The gloom lifts. Light gleams again. Wind moans through the street. A silenced voice. An exhaled breath. A stilled crawl. Crimson seeps across the ink-stained banner. Scarlet mingles with gold and silver, carried away in endless rivulets dropping from the weeping sky.

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10 Comments

  1. It’s beautiful. I really like it. 🙂

  2. This is fantastic. F. 451 is really inspiring.

  3. Wow, this was really good. 😀

  4. I saw ‘Fahrenheit 451’ in the introduction and I was sold. Fahrenheit 451 is one of the few books that has brought me to tears. Though Shakespeare is good too (understatement of the year).

    Nicely done. It’s very vivid, and the short, choppy sentences bring to mind the terse, slicing, bullet-point drops of a wild storm. You use very powerful, impacting verbs, like ‘crash’, ‘roar’, ‘twist’, and ‘howl’.

    • Thanks. Yes, Fahrenheit 451 is a fascinating book. I can’t imagine trying to write for very long in that style, but it was fun to write a short passage.

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