He is a blizzard of a boy. A nuisance, a whipping cold nuisance, who does naught but make my eyes sting and my ears insentient. When I pass him on the pavement, I steel my breath so I’m not lung-robbed, tugging my shawls closer. In my clustering apricot mind, I don’t mind. I take the blanching mouthfuls, take the thousand bitter snowspits like the good masochistic girl that I am. When they ask me, I tell them that it tastes like ice cream.
Flakes from the sand man’s skin are floating in my coffee. The sun’s not up yet, but the rain sure is. I can hear it, hammering on the glass roof. I sound like I’m under fire, like I should be running for cover. Instead I’m pushing around the orange dust, the dregs from the last box of cornflakes, on the table – maybe I can spell a word? Is there enough dust to make a sentence? You’re the man of this house now.
I wish I could go back to that day. Before then. With mum and dad, with Kitty – with the rain on the sand – I never realized before that day that it could rain on the beach. Silly, really.
Parents laughing. Kitty screaming with delight. It was a miracle. Something new. The Heavens were open. Every god in the sky united in the task of pissing on us, this family. We loved it.
But then they didn’t stop pissing on us. And we got bored.
This piece is complemented by : Raindrop
I don’t believe people when they say they aren’t angels. He said he was the rain, only the rain. No miracle.
“So you’ve seen Heaven, then,” I said.
“What makes you think that?” Continue reading “Flash Fiction : Raindrop”