the boy who cried rain
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He said he loved the smell of rain. I said rain didn’t smell like anything. It must’ve been the heat escaping from the ground. No, he insisted. When it comes, you’ll understand what I mean.
He said he loved the smell of rain and so I showed him mine. I let him in to see my thunder, my scattered rainfalls, my tropical depressions. It was too late when the first of the floods rushed in.
Struggle. Air. Footing. The last time I saw him.
In the early morning when there is quiet, I still hear the boy who cried rain.
This and other 100-word stories in Project 0.1.
Photo: art-rain-room
♫: Diana Vickers | The Boy Who Murdered Love (2010)
Petrichor. That's what you call the smell of rain after a long, dry spell. Interestingly, petrichor, is cleansing despite being mildly toxic; an apt comparison to how writers often see rain as a 'cleansing' and liberating experience right after the downpour.
ReplyDeleteRei: Well said!
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