The World When It Rains

The World When It Rains


            They did not move. They pretended that things were beyond their doors or outside their windows. They had led themselves to believe that the rain was deadly, that it would cart them away somewhere undesirable. So, they acted like their bones were feathers, that their skin was paper, that they were fake bodies.

            Occasionally he would run a finger down her naked back or play with a few strands of her hair. She would hum a song and they would be bathed in dark blue air that pushed through the blinds.

            It was beautiful to be so small. It was enough to be entirely insignificant. They had no intentions of ending this. After a while, they would play a game and try to keep track of all the raindrops that fell. They dared not to make too much noise; to disrupt the sleeping room would be ruining what they had worked so hard for. They slept off and on. She would want to kiss when she would wake up; she got her wish every time.

            It was like this for a while. The feathered bodies, their blood tired enough to do what it had to do, but nothing more. Time lost definition and substance. The rain - deadly, remember now - fell and orchestrated its puddles, its streams, filled potholes to make lakes, blurred the sight of ghosts. For miles, all lay still. The girl would hum, the boy would trace fantasy shapes on her flesh. Their chairs and pictures gathered dust but that would not alter much. The house became nothing and everything.

            It was lovely to not be memorable. It was nice to fall victim to the raining world.

Kevin Richard White            
Kevin Richard White is the author of the novels The Face Of A Monster and Patch Of Sunlight. His work has been previously published by Akashic Books, Sundog Lit, Tahoe Writers Works, Crack The Spine, Dime Show Review, Lunch Ticket, Aji Magazine, Ghost Parachute and Cactus Heart Press among others. He lives in Pennsylvania.





Post a Comment

Previous Post Next Post