I was laying in the rain. I must be getting sick because my stomach hurts. I should go inside. On the television, there are reports of cars floating from building to building in downtown Austin with the rushing water.

Oddly, there is no wind, no thunder, nothing but rain, over and over, rain. The rain falls like a tennis ball that bounces up and falls again and again, over and over.

The weather forecasters keep promising that the clouds would leave any day now, but I am skeptical. Haven‘t I heard that before? Especially after the President said that there will be no Federal relief since “it can’t rain forever.” It has been forever. It seems like I’m trapped in a fantasy world where it rains all day and night and nothing ever ends. Death is the only finality.

Streams of boats filled with families can be seen exiting the city in search of higher ground. For now, we are safe. We live on tip of a tall hill. Our fence is gone, the one I built. The rain keeps coming, replacing everything.

My family has enough food to last us until the rain stops. We have plenty of water; believe me. The rain constantly reminds us that we cannot ignore it. The clouds seem to be mocking me.

In the mornings, the rooster doesn’t crow. He sits on the roof proudly and boldly, ever defying the rain. Over and over he defies the rain. He never quits. When he dies, we throw his dead body in a junk heap and buy a new one. If there was any wind, it might be headed south. The clouds glare at the brass rooster and his pride. They hate him for it. They glare at me too, mocking me.

There is a stranger outside my window. Her long whispy hair is in his face and I cannot see her. Suddenly my eyes swell with tears. I imagine the tears splattering on her hidden face. I imagine beating her.

She has a nice hat, though; it defies the rain and the clouds. The clouds are mocking me.

The rolling clouds blanket the sky. No bit of sunshine can break through the cloud cover. The clouds form faces that twist and contort. They seem to be crying. A thorn has somehow pricked my brow and blood mixes with the tears of the clouds, I can see right through it. The crying clouds glare down at me, still crying and they mock me. Suddenly hail whacks me in the head and I collapse on the porch in a heap.

When I finally regain consciousness, it is night. Quickly, I prepare myself. Tonight she comes.

Lightning

She is at my front door, jiggling the lock. She is a fool and I will kill her for it. She won’t come near me.

Lightning

From the shadows, I can see her. She is tall and muscular, but I will be quick and ferocious. She wears a white robe that seems to radiate light, but my dark cloak devours the light. Her innocence disgusts me. I will destroy her.

Lightning

As she comes closer, my muscles tighten, I am ready to pounce. My eyes narrow like a cat and my hand grips tight the wooden handle of my one sharp claw.

Lightning

I can see the shadows on her face. Her fearlessness infuriates me. Still, I wait.

Lightning

She is close enough to touch. I can smell her sweat, it summons a blood-lust, but patience stows the rage.

Lightning

She steps closer.

Lightning

Her leg is inches from my face, but I am concealed in darkness, wrapped in it, at peace with it, at one with it. Her robe flows in the darkness with unseen breeze. It flows like the clouds that mock me.

Lightning

I lunge forward into the light and sink deep the knife into this woman. She stares in disbelief.

Lightning

Her blood is on my hands. It is warm. A pool is accumulating on the tile. I delight in it.

In the blood a reflection burns my eyes. It is the clouds; they spit at me, mocking me. If only I had gotten her sooner things would have been different. I am glad to have killed her; she looked too familiar. I think I met her once, maybe in brief passing. I am not a murderer; she forced me to do it. It is not my fault.

Tears trickle down my face, mixing with the blood. She looks up at me, through the blood. I almost see myself under the crown of thorns which rings her head. I glare down at her, still crying, and I mock her. I spit at her.

I cannot believe it. She got me when I wasn’t looking. I die over and over as I pull the knife out of my stomach and lay in my mess. The pain is immense as I twist the handle back and forth, feeling the blade scrape my ribs.

Inside my house it is sticky. Our blood is everywhere, thick blood, and it smells. Flies have invaded the house and they coat the walls. When I yawn, they flood my mouth, a moving devouring entity. I crush them with my teeth. Their crunch brings happiness to my soul. I like destroying them. The flies are moving walls, tables, chairs. Mounds of flies form bodies, fallen angles. The flies move on my command, they do my bidding. The love me, they flock to my body.

On the eighth day of the flood, the flies are so numerous that they clog my nostrils. I cannot breathe. The flies cover my eyes, blinding me. My chest burns and a maddening rage tares through my body. I strike out at the flies, but my fury draws more and more. In my blindness, I find a window. The flies beg me to die, to join them. They hate me; they want to kill me. I am afraid. I leap out of the window.

Falling

As I fall, I remember my best, closest friend. We were inseparable, always existing in the now. Carpe diem. Carpe diem. Carpe diem. But now my shaking had caresses her quivering cheek as her pale blue eyes struggle to maintain their focus. Her lips move in unheard conversation, speckled with crimson blood. The blood is from the clouds, but hers and mine all the same. I take my hand from my wounded stomach and grasp her left hand with my right. I try to will her to life, but my love is not greater than her wound. She is dying; my beautiful, most favorite friend is dying. Over and over she dies. It seems that she is always doing this. I almost want to kill her, over and over.

My tears fall upon her face. The tear ripples through her body, like water. I attempt to smile for her in her last moments. “I love you.” My lips mouth as she gazes up at me. I try to wipe my face, but smear her blood across my nose, turning my tears into blood. I push her wet hair back and kiss her forehead. I can see her eyes lose focus and go dim; they are gray and lifeless. I am empty, void of life again.

Suddenly, I am reminded of everything else. A dead numbness is my gut, the nectar of life creeping over my shirt. A shadow falls across me from a stain-glass window, separating me from my love. The walls are gray, empty, indifferent to my loss. Music comes to my ears. It is the sound of children playing, laughing. It reverberates though my mind. I close my eyes to listen but it is gone. Just like my love, gone before I ever knew her. I just killed her. Now I lay me down to sleep and pull her lifeless shell close praying the Lord, our souls to keep. Shutting my eyes, I prepare to die by her side. Memories of rain flood my head, rain that brought her to me. I lay there for hours, years, eternity as seconds tick by. Each second, an equal period of time. Over and over they strike me, like the beating of rain on my head.

Rain drops splash in my eyes and I wake from my daze. I cannot move. I lay on my back, staring up at the clouds, rain pooling in my eyes. I feel warm liquid running down my cheek. Water pours from my wound. On the grass I stay, raindrops pounding my head like a black smith hammering on a horseshoe. The smith will finish only to take out another strip of metal and bang on it. Horses will wear the shoes and die, over and over, new shoes, new horses, new lives, new deaths. Nothing is new. New only replaces old. Old dies and becomes new. Jars of jam line refrigerator doors. Jam is jammed down hungry mouths, glass jars jammed in jam jar junk. Junk is thrown in piles, great mountains of piles. Mountains are worn and battered. Sand pours from streams. Streams flow into cities were jam eaters make glass.
Slowly, my life beats on those below. As I stare at the clouds, I realize that they are dying too. Their blood mixes with mine on my face; it is one. I smile at them. The smile is theirs.

As I lay in the yard, staring into the clouds, I can hear my heart beat. I close my eyes and drink in the dark silence between every beat. It is just like rain.

For a week it has rained. Everything is gray, opressive. It has never rained like this before, or maybe it has. Everything has happened before.

-Kyle Warren '01

Stories