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For Sharin.

Rain

I realize the writing is weird. I was tired, tried to push my brain sideways, and wrote with a twist. Now, in September 2013, the writing seems unnatural, forced. I keep the story here, but I think it should be rewritten.

It seemed the wind would rise from the East, to push on the clouds hanging with the black peaks. That rain should drench us shortly was inevitable. That the heat of the sun shining high above in the iridescent blue sky would turn to chill as all the the blades of green grass near our feet would bend under the waves needed no further thought. We lifted our packs and as one began stepping to the patch of tall trees, at once entering the darkening shelter and promptly tracing along an old path. Noises around tracked our breaths, echoed our scent, throught the tunnel complex under the organic canopy. Sweat, ever present, coursed on skin, drenched clothes. We walked. The camp appeared behind a thin tree, engulfed us, and hid us from the near rain.

In the tent, Ganj and I drank water, then talked. Nothing had happened. Nothing would happen. Perhaps Dari and Meve were in a better mood. We would not know until after nightfall. We had seen no other, had not encountered fresh tracks, had not smelled our specie. We talked softly until the raindrops began to smack the reclining leaves then we fell silent.

Nirak came silently, crouching through the opening to the next tent, and wordlessly handed us each a ball of boiled millet wrapped in a pungent oblong leaf. We nodded and ate as Nirak exited as she had entered, eyes eyeing our consumption, then turning in the tunnel. She never spoke, these days, save to her amulet and to the night sky, when no other was near. The rain drops streaked above us in rivulets and fell into the grass at the tent's edge.

Ganj, finished eating, laid down and closed his eyes. I kept my eyes fixed on the forest and the gentle sway of the leaves, dancing, as they seemed, to the raindrop melody.

© 2010 Christopher Mahan