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Rain-Flash Fiction by J. Brooke
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ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

rain.jpg
Art by Ann Marie Rhiel 2018

RAIN

by j brooke



It shall be a world of reticent dreams, of alchemy, of the music, the octaves of the smiling of the cellos, the violas, and the violins; and the whisper of the gray translucent water spectrum's spilling from a sky of eternal soul wept tears.

There will be God; there will be streaks of silver shards in the night; globules of cold fire that within a magnificent moment will whisper her name; and it shall be called our mistress of beauty; and it shall be called life. For water is continuous and thus a miracle; miraculous, a glimmer, glistening in jeweled goblets; a falling, failing memory of pewter, of diamond light, of the love of the universe within all of its shadows.

It shall be gentleness; its silence; its rage; its elegance of mercurial sky moments; within the barges of coal steamers burdened with fog, laddered to the hulls, drenched, satiated of tears refracting every nuance of the sun, at times the moon. She is the mother of all life.

Her liquid tresses will transport such loveliness of moisture here; do you not see, not feel the wetness of the other universes; and how she, the child from the pathos of the darkness, calms our soul, graces our hearts with cold wept water strings that bead upon our skin; mix, bide time, blend, and soar with the swallows of wet white wings that fly and streak as tumultuous pearl rainbows towards the earth.

I do not know such things; but I pray I remember when the drips of platinum water drops fell from the sky in innocence; a drizzle; a deluge; shy, petulant, mercury mirrors of silver arrows; bows struck within gold, indigo, opal and moonstone; there, near the waterfalls screaming from the plateaus between Earth and Luna.
 

Torrents, life force, ponds, rivers, streams, allowing us a moment to be free from the heat of the world; free, a gift, a weeping orphan in singular multiple shards of dew, fog, washing away our sins. She is more powerful than fire, iron; for she, the goddess of the liquid world, eats iron, travels within rivulets where fire dies within, as on; and in the last moments before the forest sleeps, before night swallows the moon. She, they, it, is task; so little known, a sister of another world, felt and severed, as if a great blade has struck the very core of the water wheel from its pinions, spilling love to the turned-up faces of the morning sparrows.

Dance, ballet, cries, silent moans, butterflies soaring, winged, wind whisper warriors, these Gypsies of cylindrical ovals of a sun-lit glee; there, blended within the sky, within the darkness. Each white water drop illuminated as if a secular and singular promise from heaven, mimicking each, as a single opal.

She and those that echo her are our benefactor, our whore, our courtesan, our lover, a single sonnet of a cooling song on our faces; faces turned to God, as a reward, as a human and as beautiful and as soothing as moss that lives from this reward for our survival. She is, our cousin, our child, our sisters, she is the wet kiss on my cheek as I turn my eyes to the end of the universe.

She is the color tantrum welded of gray and opium white spectrum of shattered mirrors that touches, grazes and kisses my lips as the morning dew melts within the first hints of a mauve dawn. She is the source of all life, the beginning of time, the end of life, if she should chose to vanish from our lives; she is, she shall always be, simply said the great Queen of all life.

She is a rainbow translucent tear drop, the goddess to her sister THE RAIN.

 

j brooke is a writer with over 100 credits, and never lists them. It's simple for j, for it’s never what you have already written, but what you are going to write next. Contact info: jbrooke2001@yahoo.com

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2018