Little Storm, Sweetling

A short story that deals with the loss of passion, and realization that life and life-givers are the greatest bringers of creativity one can find.

    A thunderous boom of applause, the light tip tap of a dancer on my roof, and a finale of humidity- turned rain had left me without the ability to venture out into the world. I was stuck grimly watching my cat run back and forth among the canvases and pieces of notebook paper that had fluttered to the ground in my maniacal attempts to create.

    Of course, I stress the word ‘attempts’ with a passion to rival the exuberance my small feline friend was showing at the rippling paper.

    This morning I had awoken and sworn that I would head out into the wilderness and would not re-enter the small shack that I called home until I had found my creativity. The basket with enough food to last several weeks was still sitting on the counter where I had left it when the rain had first begun falling.

    At first I was going to simply bring an umbrella and raincoat with me- but finding the raincoat and umbrella in the rank three-room cottage had taken four hours. The idiotic raincoat had never revealed itself of course.

    But by that time the gentle shower had turned into a ravishing downpour that threatened to tear my home to pieces then and there. It was either die in the rain, or die by a fire, and I had chosen the latter.

    “Mreowww,” roared my little feline friend in question.

    With annoyance I shot her a glare. The black and white kitten returned it with a snicker and then began to once again tear up the remnants of a thought-which had never committed itself to paper.

    Well, the cat was certainly cheaper than a paper shredder.

    With a deep, unrelenting sigh at my bad luck and the chill the rain was bringing I snuggled deeper into the antique arm chair that I was going to stay in till the storm was over, or I killed myself. The need to pick up a pen, a paintbrush, it was over whelming- but it was the same need that had plagued me into wanting to find the creativity that would drive the pen. I could do nothing until I found my passion, as I had discovered this morning.

    But the rain would not stop for the sake of the sanity of one person. It was an unyielding force almost greater than the love that filled my aching heart when I thought of writing and drawing, or painting and creating.

     Like ice it could fall, slicing the goose bumps that would appear on one’s arm. Then it could easily turn into the romantic sprinkle of warm wetness. It was as volatile as the sea, and as easily corrupted by pollution and change- but it could never cease to exist, to continue its downpour once more. Always it would return, different but the same as before when it had brought both floods and life.

    I grinned, for it was as if the rain had read my thoughts of change and life. It was cooling its rage, softening to a gentle fall that would be good for the numerous plants that surrounded my hole of passion and creativity. Now- instead of pounding its ice fists against my window I could see it running its fingers over the glass in a caress. That caress brought life to plants and animals as it filled the mountain streams and lakes.

    Rain brought life and death, spirit and passion.

    It perfected romanticism, and left wonderment in the eyes of the beholder.

    Where it fell raised something new, and when it raised it left something old.

    Then I leaped from my chair in realization, and in ecstasy. My hand flew to the forgotten pen on the small coffee table that had been thrown into a tassle this morning. On my way to my desk I laid my hand on a scrap of paper, for a scrap was all I needed.

    Finally, kneeling before my window so that I could write on the glass I let myself out from the rut, which I had fallen into this morning. Like dew the words appeared on the page, only half-made and formed from my own mind. No rhythm was needed other than the gentle tap, the sliding drops of water running races down the outside of my home.

“Child of storms and of white collared frills,
This is your home of water, unstilled.
Fall upon drops of ravaging kill.
Then loosen your tongue and drink the sweet mill.

Raindrops claim windows,
And run down as widows.

Then rays break cloud cover,
And sweet child, you’re over.

But little storm sweetling,
Behind you, I’m reeling.
For though you bring flooding,
You left me with something.

As rain drops and dew dots,
I know that my ink spots
Will last as long as you bring
My life on your moistened wing.”

    As I finished I pressed my forehead against the window, letting the coolness touch the fire within me.

    Outside, the flowers were blooming.

 

Reviews

[Lexi Nicole]

Lovely. You have a true gift for story-telling. Your words sing across the page. I, personally, disagree with Hyatt_B. I think you write with exceptional skill, maturity and grace. I think the bud was at the beginning of this piece, and it blossomed with the closing words. I love your clever wording and I don't feel that you've necessarily held the reader's hand throughout the story. You simple let them follow the character through their search for creativity. Beautiful, stunning work. You should be very proud of this piece. Keep writing!

-Howl

[Hyatt_B]

Your writing is a bud about to blossom. You write with maturity and skill, but try not to put EVERY clever word you know into what you write, give some guidance to us your readers but don't hold our hands. The vivacity of the narrative will serve you well.