Heres my latest short story I wrote last night. Let me know what you think! Enjoy! Rain A short story by Tim Bennett Rain. Again for the fifth day in a row. Why couldn’t it rain at night? The fields were waterlogged and the birds would have to turn into fish to survive. But that was life, wasn’t it? Take what you’re given and make the best of it. Only, he felt like he’d been doing that far too much lately. He was supposed to go walking with a friend. She had called earlier saying the paths were too slippery and wet. He knew that, but they were friends so shouldn’t she make an excuse to talk? The windshield wipers beat an annoying offbeat rhythm to the Darius Rucker song playing through the fuzzy speakers of his old ’65 Oldsmobile. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford a new car. No, he and his son had spent three years restoring the old hunk of rust and rotting junk to near pristine condition. Actually, his son had said they’d done too good of a job, and, with his father’s consent, slammed the handle of a screwdriver into the driver’s side quarter panel making a small dent. They were satisfied. His son told him that he had better drive the car every day. His son was married now, moved away and operating a business of his own. Maybe one day he would have a grandson to give the car to. He glanced at the empty seat next to him. How many years had it been? Eight? Nine? Surely, it couldn’t be ten. No, nine years since he’d told his wife goodbye in the hospital. Nine years of living alone in a new, smaller house. He didn’t like the empty, hungry feeling of the old house. Every year on Christmas day, he walked along the river on the narrow, paved path that they used to walk hand in hand together under the flakes of pure white snow. It fell silently onto their hair turning it white. The only music in that peaceful escape was the gentle gurgle of the river and the occasional crack of ice hitting ice. The speedometer read 25 mph. Water gushed down the trench beside the road. It’d been raining that night too, hadn’t it? She’d loved horses. They were her passion ever since they’d spent six years in Iceland. But that day it was her undoing. She’d left a note saying she was riding on the north slope of their property. He hadn’t thought anything of it. Home late from work as he was, he would’ve done the same thing—only he didn’t care so much for the animals. He started to prepare supper, and half an hour later cisterns of water fell from the sky. He knew she would return shortly as she didn’t care for riding in the rain. He opened the hallway closet and grabbed two blankets and a black umbrella. He waded through the forming mud puddles to the barn. The musty smell of old hay, oats and horse wafted to him and mixed with the scent of freshly washed earth. He watched his speedometer fall to 20 mph. She didn’t come back as soon as he’d expected. He waited. Supper grew cold. Finally, he saddled the palomino gelding and trotted lightly toward the north slope. Crickets chirped eerily in the tranquility after the rainstorm. Slick mud splattered the palomino’s legs, and he nickered softly. Small rivulets ran down the mountain in brown tears which spilled into a swift creek that cut the property in half. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin. His headlights illuminated something on the road ahead. That night on the north slope had given birth to the reality of his worst fear. Long trenches, each the width of a horse’s hoof, caught some of the dreary water and sent it cascading over a cliff. He didn’t push the palomino onto the same incline, however. And fear snatched his heart. It wasn’t real he’d told himself. His eyes were lying. Peering over the thirty foot cliff, the first thing he saw was his wife’s riding hat snagged on a tree branch. Disbelief. The wind had blown it from her head. Anger. He should have looked after her better. Denial. He had passed her on her way to the house. Mortality. Death would find him just as it had found his wife. Hope. The cliff wasn’t that tall. Maybe she was all right. Ten minutes later he stared at a mangled mess of flesh. Eyes glowed at him over the yellow glow of the Old’s instruments. He should slow down. He saw the buckskin his wife loved lying on its side with its head contorted so its nose rested on its withers. Its neck was broken. Fear. Where was his wife? Anxiety. The horse was dead. Desperation. He couldn’t find his wife. There, on the left side of the road a small animal tried to scurry away from the crushing wheels of the oncoming car. He saw it jerk and tumble headfirst into a puddle. The palomino was sweating and huffing heavily when he reached the house. He flung the door open and grabbed the phone with a shaking hand. Minutes later, no hours later, an ambulance arrived from the city. The doctors panted behind him as he led them to his wife. Gingerly, they rolled her onto the stretcher. Her right hip was about four inches higher than her left. Blood, now clotted, covered her muddy clothes and bare skin. She pulled at the shallow air with whistling, gurgling lungs. They could save her, right? Lightening lit up the sky and the interior of the Olds. Thunder followed closely behind its leader. They were a pair. He thought about the animal on the road. It had acted injured. Injured or rabid. That night at the hospital he waited for four hours. Then, he waited for three more. At last the doctors said he could see her. They said a few other things, but he couldn’t remember what. He knew only one thing. He had to see her. A windshield wiper ceased its monotonous motion. He hadn’t turned it off, and the other one still slid back and forth across the passenger side. His foot found the brake. If only life had a brake, he would have hit it that night before she died. He had felt that so much had been left unsaid. It was unfair. Furious. Why did it happen to his love, his life? Insecurity. What would happen next? Love. He thought she had smiled at him as he poured his heart into her. The image of the cat-sized animal replayed in his mind. It fell into the puddle because it was scared of him. Lonesomeness. That night had been the hardest of his life. Bitterness. His wife, his love, his life, his everything had been stolen from him. Depression. Life had no meaning without her. The rain stung his face and his hands it was so cold. The tail lights cast an ethereal, red glint off the numerous puddles. Regret. Life together should have been longer. Sadness. He missed what once was. Contemplation. Something had to exist to take the place of the void that opened deep in his chest. Tiny claws dug into his hands, and wet, mangy fur slicked his chest with mud. The cat looked dead, but judging by the use of its claws, it still had a life or two left. One of its ears was torn off midway above its tiny head, and the other was nicked as if someone had cut a V out of its top curve. Its crooked tail looked shorter than it should’ve been, and its front, right leg hung limply from an unnatural bend. He set the cat in the passenger seat and built a sort of nest around it with his shirt. Frightened, green eyes glanced at him, but didn’t really focus on anything. Their pupils were wide and black. He fixed the loose wire in the windshield wiper and crawled back into the car. He was growing too old to be doing that sort of thing. The cat remained silent as he found a dry mechanic’s cloth and rubbed the sodden lump of fur. It wore a collar around its neck. He looked closely at it. Only one word peered back. Heilun. He sat in front of his shop’s woodstove with a shapeless chunk of wood in one hand and a knife in the other. Wood shavings covered the concrete floor like snow. A warm blaze crackled and filtered through the glass window to light the room in a wavering, orange glow. From his square jaw, a gray beard sprouted which needed a comb. A lump of mottled brown and black fur lay in his lap. Slowly, his lips turned up in a soft smile. He passed the knife to his other hand and rubbed the fur beneath the half-missing ear. Something tickled his cheek with the slippery surety that only a tear can possess. Quiet, rumbling music stole through the dry air, and a leg with a strange lump stretched across the man’s leg knocking more woodchips to the floor.
Posted on: Sat, 09 Aug 2014 22:52:50 +0000
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