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Short Story: Rain
Oct. 19th, 2004 10:37 pmA young woman, touring the house of an illusionist friend, came upon a poem scroll displayed on the wall in a long-forgotten room. As she began to read the enthralling lines, the room around her seemed to melt away and the words themselves faded, too. The rain fell all around her as she walked through the illusion. She saw quiet spots of green, plant life growing here and there between the concrete and the pools of water. Misty droplets of raindew rested upon the blades of grass, slipping off with a quiet sound as the earth was battered with water from above. The air was misty all around, almost concealing a small bus stop ahead of her. She walked towards it as if for shelter from the rain, though she felt the urge to have the mist and water surround her forever. In the bus stop stood someone in black clothes, staring up at the rain in solitude. From that distance she could not tell if the figure was male or female.
In a gentle voice full with regret and long-lived exhaustion, the figure spoke, seemingly to her and seemingly to itself. “It hasn’t been that long since then.”
The words, simple as they were, seemed filled with immense meaning, as if they bore a story that they alone could carry. Somehow, as much as she wanted to know the meaning, the story, it seemed a travesty to break their simplicity with any sort of explanation.
“It feels like a long time,” a second voice from behind her answered. Past her walked the source of the voice, the illusionist she had come to visit.
The figure at the bus stop turned, the mist obscuring its face, “I guess.” It shrugged.
“We’ve aged since then,” the illusionist’s image stuck its hands in the pockets of its black coat and stared at the aqueous lines running down the fogged glass of the bus stop, the drops carving a path of clarity through the white condensation. “In our hearts, at least.”
“Nah,” the other image turned to face the street, as if waiting for the bus that would never come, “We’ve always been old.”
The young woman still felt the slightest breath of raindew on her face as that misted world faded and left her standing alone in a forgotten room of poem-lined walls.
In a gentle voice full with regret and long-lived exhaustion, the figure spoke, seemingly to her and seemingly to itself. “It hasn’t been that long since then.”
The words, simple as they were, seemed filled with immense meaning, as if they bore a story that they alone could carry. Somehow, as much as she wanted to know the meaning, the story, it seemed a travesty to break their simplicity with any sort of explanation.
“It feels like a long time,” a second voice from behind her answered. Past her walked the source of the voice, the illusionist she had come to visit.
The figure at the bus stop turned, the mist obscuring its face, “I guess.” It shrugged.
“We’ve aged since then,” the illusionist’s image stuck its hands in the pockets of its black coat and stared at the aqueous lines running down the fogged glass of the bus stop, the drops carving a path of clarity through the white condensation. “In our hearts, at least.”
“Nah,” the other image turned to face the street, as if waiting for the bus that would never come, “We’ve always been old.”
The young woman still felt the slightest breath of raindew on her face as that misted world faded and left her standing alone in a forgotten room of poem-lined walls.
