Rain

Rain brings with her a mixture of emotions. My moods often vary as hers does.

A summer drizzle that tickles my nostrils with the scent of the parched earth soaking in rain drops fills me with joy. Summer is the season of mangoes and jackfruits and pomelos. The scattered showers accentuate the sweet scents of their blossoms. When I was a child, I watched many a summer shower from the shelter of the dense foliage of a tall pomelo tree.

In autumn, rain is a confusing concept, she makes me feel both hopeful and a little sad at the same time; sad that the summer has passed, and hopeful for the upcoming winter. Where I grew up, October showers are a spectacular occurrence. Rain falls in sheets, with the percussive accompaniment of thunder and a riveting lightning show. The purple sky splitting into shards of light is a sight one needs to see to believe. The thunder that rumbles in the mountains reverberates within you, deep within your soul.

In winter, rain  is a surprise,not always a pleasant one. She brings with her, a coat of fog that hides everything away. She darkens the sky and depresses me. Often the mood (mine and hers) lasts all day, and sometimes for several days, the whining wind, the cold drizzle, the mist … When it finally clears, the mornings dawn crisp and fresh and … heavenly.

Spring rain is a flighty creature. She arrives and departs in the blink of an eye, leaving the day light and airy. The only sign of her ever having been there, the tiny drops that glitter on the dancing petals. She is my favourite of them all, the enchantress who envelopes me in her hasty embrace before vanishing into the thin air …

The purple tree at the end of the road

The bright lights were almost too much for Joan to handle. She almost closed her eyes before remembering that she shouldn’t. She remembered thinking to herself, this is the finish line then, this is where it all ends…

When she woke up, she felt strangely at peace. It was an unsettling feeling, for she had never known such peace, ever. She opened her eyes to what looked like a park. She was lying on what seemed to be grass which was rapidly turning white. She looked around, it was snowing. That threw her a bit, she could’ve sworn it was July. Funnily enough, she wasn’t cold at all, nor was she getting wet even though she were standing in the snow in what passed as summer clothes. She realised that she was standing halfway up a hillock. She looked up to see nothing but darkness on the path leading up. A little way down from where she was, she spotted a strange tree that emitted a purple glow. She wondered briefly, how she could tell that it was purple, for other than the ghostly white snow, all was dark.

She hesitated for a minute or two, then decided to make her way down to the tree. As she walked downhill, she became aware of the changing light. It became brighter, but not piercingly so. Bit by bit, her surroundings became clearer. It wasn’t night anymore. Nor was it snowing anymore. She was walking on a grassy path. There were tiny yellow and red flowers under her feet, peeking their heads up shyly, as if to say hello. There was a light, pleasant, breeze that reminded her of the late springs of her childhood. She walked until there was no path to walk on. She was at the edge of a pond with clear, glassy green water. She could see life underneath. There were plants in a variety of colours that looked as if they were lit within. There were schools of fish and other life forms, some swimming placidly by, others resting among the plants. She looked toward the tree again. She didn’t know why, but she felt that it is her destination, somehow, it was very important that she get there.

As she kept looking at the tree, the water that was lapping at her feet swept away to both sides it. There was a path of completely dry sand leading up to the tree. She hesitated for a moment, all of it seemed too easy, too good to be true. She made up her mind to take a chance and stepped on to the white sand. She walked right to the base of the tree. She looked up to the branches, there seemed to be no end to them. She couldn’t see where the tree ended and the sky began. She didn’t know what to do now. She looked up again, to see her mother smiling down at her. At her shoulder were everyone she had thought she’d never see ever again, all smiling down at her. She was at a total loss for words. She smiled through her tears as her mother took her in her arms and said, “Dearest, you’re home again”.

Growing old

Every grey hair, every new facial line, made her face a universal truth she didn’t want to. Contemplating one’s own mortality, is, after all, not a pleasant business, for anyone. In the ledger of regrets, the reds were the things she never found the time to do, rather than the ones she did. Watching the seasons go by had a poetic beauty that appealed to her. But the reality was a tad more daunting. To think that one day in the not so distant future, she will cease to exist was almost unfathomable, no matter how real it was.

 

• in response to this prompt, https://carrotranch.com/2019/05/10/may-9-flash-fiction-challenge/

Peace

She seemed to have walked into an old churchyard without realising it. She didn’t know what time it was, or how long she had walked. She had been thinking about an incident at work, and seemed to have lost all track of time and direction. She looked around in confusion. She really had no idea where she was ! And she didn’t have her mobile phone on her either. Her computer quitting on her all too often at work had put her in a rather technophobic mood and she had left it at home. She looked up at the steeples of the church, rising defiantly into the sky. There were no lights anywhere. Perhaps it is abandoned, she thought to herself. But it didn’t look so. It looked old, sure, but also well maintained, the hedges surrounding the yard were neatly trimmed, there was even what looked like a small garden in one corner. It was dark, too dark to see anything clearly, but she was, surprisingly, not scared at all. It was quiet too, the only sounds were the usual nocturnal insect noises and the breathless whispers of the light breeze. She stopped fidgeting and stood still for a moment, breathing in the night air. For the first time since that morning, her mind was finally quiet. Her thoughts had stopped churning endlessly. Finally, there was peace.

-In response to this prompt, https://godoggocafe.com/2019/05/07/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-tuesday-may-7-2019/.Pe

The white room

It was one of those rare instances where reality matched up exactly with the imagination. This was exactly what Jonas had imagined a completely white room to look like. It was devoid of all furniture but for a table with two chairs (big surprise, they were also white!) facing each other at the exact centre of the room. Jonas couldn’t remember how he got here. He didn’t even know where here was or why he was here. He looked around again to see of he had missed anything. He felt a little unsettled, but he didn’t feel like he was in any immediate danger. There was nothing to do but wait, he thought to himself, as he walked over to the table and sat down on one of the chairs. For what ? A slightly squeaky voice at the very back of his mind asked. He didn’t have an answer to that.

Jonas had heard the expression about the silence being deafening, but he had never actually thought about it, nor had he ever understood it. But he was starting to now. The only sounds he could hear were his own periodic breaths and heartbeats. He strained his ears, listening for any other sounds, there were none. He sat back in the chair and decided to think this out rationally. He didn’t have any trouble breathing, so that’s good. But he didn’t know where he was, how he got here or why he was here – bad, bad, bad. Also, he was getting a little thirsty. He was looking around aimlessly as he thought this, and spotted a drinking fountain (also white, with white pipe fittings?) in one corner. His brow furrowed, it surely hadn’t been there when he looked around earlier. He walked tentatively towards it and held out his hand under it. He removed it hurriedly as a clear, odourless liquid streamed through it and fell into the basin underneath. It looked like water all right, he thought. He wet one of his fingers under the tap and tasted it. It tasted like water as well. He had never quite liked the idea of sticking his head under the tap at drinking fountains. Just as he thought he’d have to bow to the inevitable and drink directly from the tap, he spotted a glass right next to where he had rested his left hand at the basin. He could’ve sworn it wasn’t there a moment ago. He picked it up and examined it. It looked normal, and he was too thirsty for a closer inspection.

He drank a glass of water from the fountain, filled the glass again and brought it with him to the table. He sat back in the chair, and yet again, took stock of the situation. Well, it hadn’t really changed in the last hour, and there wasn’t anything he still could do. So he just sat there, listening, waiting, watching for any change in his surroundings.

Memories

The chamber had been her father’s study of old. It had a general air of neglect, cobwebs littered the tables and chairs, and the gentle pitter-patter of scurrying mice echoed in the silent corridor. Hers had been the first human feet to enter it in the last twenty years or so. Every one else who had known of its existence had perished long ago. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, not quite knowing how to feel about being back here. Her memories of her father were interlaced with a confused mixture of emotions. The man who played with her and the man who sang her to sleep was also the man who had abandoned her mother and herself. He was the man who caused the deaths of countless people, her mother and brother among them. He was the man who came to her in strange dreams and begged for her forgiveness while professing his unconditional love for her. She no longer knew how she felt about him.

On the shelf in one corner of the room stood the harp he used to play to her, the silver harp of the Silver Harper. It was a wonder it hadn’t fallen to pieces in all this time. She hesitantly plucked a string. Its plangent note almost startled her. She hadn’t expected it to still be in tune. She gently picked it up and held it to her breast. It was the first time she had ever held it. She had been too young and too small to do so without dropping it the last time she was here. She walked back to the door, still hugging the harp close to her heart. As the door shut close behind her, disappearing once more into obscurity, it symbolised more than anything, her feelings for her father. Perhaps unconsciously, she had decided to keep the good memories and discard the bad ones. She might never actually forgive him for the transgressions that had hurt her mother and given her severe abandonment issues, but she may have made peace with the fact that he did, in fact, love her.

• I’ve been binge (re)reading and binge (re)watching Game of Thrones for the past week, so maybe this counts as some sort of obscure fan fiction. Any guesses as to which character I’m talking about ? Hint: She’s already dead in canon.

Presence

When the musty smells of Winter move over for the freshness of early Spring, I always think of you. When the dewy snow drops melt into nothingness, and trees stand proud wearing their crowns of new leaves and tiny yellow flowers, I feel your presence. I don’t know why this particular change of seasons reminds me of you, there are others during the year that do not. When I walk the empty roads, thinking about anything and everything in the light, refreshing rain, I often feel like you are watching me. Are you really, or is it just an echo of a wishful thought? As every new spring day dawns, I tell myself that I’m being silly, conjuring up these thoughts and moments and feelings, while I should be living out in the world rather than inside my head. And yet, and yet, I just can’t help thinking them and feeling you, all day, all around.