art of storytelling...3

The raindrops skydived to the ground, without parachute, splattering one on the other upon arrival to their final destination. One group of skydivers found themselves racing towards a concave slab of concrete that flowed downward and led to the backside of a small, yellow-trimmed house, filled with struggling spots of grass and errant cat droppings from the neighborhood strays.
A small tin awning sheltered a place large enough for one person at a time outside of the backdoor, where the lock worked sometimes. Tonight, a boy with nothing remarkable about him sat, taking up the spot large enough, at the time, for him.
He gave attention to as many drops as he could, watching the end of their time of identical solitude turn into a traveling caravan, destination unknown but the only place they were ever destined to go.
And he wanted to be one of the raindrops. If not for anything else other than that purpose that they served. Each one, flying full speed towards it with no hesitation, no doubt, only complete and unshakeable faith that their final place, the place where they would evaporate and reincarnate in the clouds, was the place they were meant to be all along.
The thought of this place, with the tin covered back porch fit only for isolation and seclusion, shuddered through him as his destination. If there was more, he begged to the home of the raindrops for a skydiving excursion there.
His helplessness was matched only by his comfort in the isolation he had become so loathsome of, but accustomed to.
He heard a car door slam. It wasn’t the same hollow, almost aluminum sound he knew from any other car door that would slam in these parts, no, this was a thicker sound, a full sound. As if the car brought so much with it, a body would have to close the doors and then come back to get the rest.
There were no voices, though, after, just steady footsteps, different ones, then a knock on the entry of the house next door. He had seen her face many times, his neighbor, but never knew her name.
He realized that he’d never heard her voice either, until now. Perhaps it sounded different when it was lower, like the soothing tune of anyone named “mama”, but his introduction to her pitch was a scorned wife. The voices got louder, his neighbor and the two men with the steady footsteps and heavy car.
But as quickly as they had risen, they fell to a silence only barged upon by the still falling raindrops.
After it was all over, and the raindrops ceased, and the blackness of the sky began to find its next part of the earth and the boy under the tin roof decided on packing small provisions, a change of clothes, the Word, and a picture of the only woman that had loved him, the police asked him about all three bodies in front of the heavy car.
He knew nothing of any of them but that they’d all reached their final destination, and he had no intentions of following them to that same place.

No comments:

Post a Comment