Short Stories By Us

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Mountain Rain

Mountain Rain

It has always been a source of amusement to me…to think about such things as rain in the human scope of things. Personification, I’m told. Why, do you suppose, are the simple things in life complicated by mouthful of word—when a small bite would do as well?

Seems that, in the mountains especially, the weather has to push harder just to get up over them so it can move on—much like early natives and pioneers. By the time those heavy-burdened clouds have scrambled, pushed, pulled, and bumped to collectively force their way over the challenge, they must be entirely exhausted, willing to drop their burden of rain onto the mountain. Perhaps those clouds are seeking to punish the mountain for its rudeness in hosting them improperly.

Many times I have viewed the pouring rain as an army of sorts, pounding down with such force as to take the mountain, quite unaware, by surprise. How those soldiers seem to scramble as soon as rain “feet” hit the ground, running. They seems to run to the low places, maybe gathering as a puddle to launch a wet attack on an unsuspecting mountainside.

Rain runs, screaming down the mountain, spraying and tumbling as they seek the path of least resistance. Running so quickly, they still seems to take several twigs, leaves, and small rocks captive…abandoning some here and there, cast aside along the way, but taking some prisoners ‘til the end of the trek down the mountain.

I would expect by now, that rain, being extremely tired, are glad to see the swollen waters that wait at the bottom of the mountain. Waters that will courteously carry them on to another and another and so on—slowing somewhat during each shift in transportation. After such a momentous day of battle, some rain must be just too tired to go on, stopping for a well-deserved rest. Maybe they’ll even be able to “catch up” with long lost kin while there.

Finally, the conjoined waters have come to the calmer waters of the river and they ease in slowly to relax, much like easing into a hot tub. The thing seems strangely akin to leaning a chair back on the front porch after dinner to just totally give your body the time it would desire to accomplish the task of digestion.

I would suppose that the rain would start thinking about taking a wife and settling down here for a while. Finally, rain couples will embark on an ocean cruise to a honeymoon destination, and thoughts of a mountain marathon will slip quietly away.

cathy

 

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ok, no "real" writers around? i'd love to read someone else's stuff. even critique is welcome,
lol.
cathy

 

[Deleted member 93]

I loved the latest story too. OK, critiqued. Sorry, not a creative word in my body, but I enjoy yours.

 

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thanks, veiled. you are so sweet.
cathy

 

[becvan]

I liked that last story. I've always viewed rain as tears that cleanse us and I like the new perspective. Well done!

bec

 

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Twilight on Mrs. Virginia's Porch

Twilight on Mrs. Virginia’s Porch

Mrs. Virginia sat on the porch, rocking slowly back…and forth again. The weathered porch seemed to creak in time with the music of her rocking chair. Lost in thought, she looked as frail as one might suppose an 85 year-old woman would. One thin, aged finger began tapping slowly on the arm of the chair, and a harmony of wood creaking, crickets chirping, and tree-frogs peeping was coming together there, drawn to her quiet hum.

Even though her days were now spent doing many small tasks, she was still dressed in beautiful, well-made dresses. Today it was a soft lavender with small, lustrous pearl buttons that complimented the soft blush of pink on her wrinkled cheeks. Her snow-white hair had been neatly plaited and pulled into a soft bun, and small tendrils escaped here and there in soft curls.

As she looked now across the lawn, she enjoyed reminiscing of the family holidays there. Children ran and gleefully laughed and screamed as ruddy boys chased female cousins with crawdads, or toads, or whatever the treasure they could manage to find for the evening’s entertainment, while the smell of barb
iqued pork wafted across the porch. There sat the assortment of aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, cousins and so forth that always gathered on the porch to talk as the twilight melted into darkness. Laughter changed to quiet words as the children caught fireflies and fed mosquitoes on the lawn, then gathered in a dark corner on the lawn to listen to one another’s hideous ghost stories. The youngest would always leave in tears, seeking momma’s comforting words, usually followed by another here, then there. Finally, all the children, sweaty and dusty would be asleep next to mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, grandparents and such.

By the time every last family had gone, Virginia and Jonathan had settled into the porch swing for a few minutes of quiet devotion and prayer, thanking God for family…always asking for Him to bless their home with children soon. At last, the tired couple would retire for the night. How tall and handsome was her Jonathan with eyes that smiled, and his gentle disposition.

Now, Virginia shook herself into the present and wiped one escaping tear from her cheek. “Jonathan, I miss you so,” would escape with a sigh, seemingly from deep within. Returning once more to thought, she could see him standing beside her, both dressed in their finest, coming home here for the first time. What a beautiful wedding it had been, pledging their love to each other, and to God. Tenderly, she remembered their first anniversary…Jonathan had spent most of the day planting a small garden of rose bushes and azaleas. It became a wonderful place for Virginia and her friends to have afternoon teas with shortbread scones and orange marmalade.

This home of theirs had seen many happy moments, as well as secret tears, through these many years. How their love grew and never dimmed in spite of hard seasons and age. It seemed to some as if their hearts had become one beating for the other instead of themselves. The only real disappointment in their lives had been the absence children in their home.

God had blessed them, though, with two lovely, joyful nieces—Katelyn and Melissa, and a red-headed, freckle-faced ball of happy laughter and unending energy named Phillip. Melissa, who was blonde and plump and ever-pleasant, had inadvertently changed his name to “Pipp”. Of course, she’d only been a baby at the time, but he was known only as Pipp from then on.

Just as Virginia had been thinking of the children, a curtain in the parlor window snapped in the breeze, bringing her back to this evening’s twilight and the fact that the window must be shut now. As her smile faded, she rose slowly and walked into the house, shutting the parlor window and drawing the curtains. The house seemed a little less aged in the twilight, and the gingerbread trim along the corners of the roof there cast a long shadow across the porch as the full moon began to glow.

Virginia slowly began her evening trek up the stairs to her bedroom. It seem now to her that this nightly ritual was becoming longer and longer. Once more, she made the comment to herself that she really must get Pipp and his boys to help her move her things to the bedroom downstairs. It would be so much easier for her not to have to climb the stairs every night and come down again in the mornings, when her body rebelled at being put through such a work-out first thing.

The next time Pipp came to call, Virginia hesitantly asked if he and the boys would be so kind as to move her things down the stairs. Of course, they readily agreed. Aunt Virginia had always done so much for them, it made them happy to be able to help. It was work, though. The antique furniture, beautifully carved, was as heavy as lead. After carefully placing the furnishings in the bedroom the children had shared while visiting Aunt Virgina and Uncle Jonathan, Pipp sat down in the shade of the porch—quickly followed by his teen-aged twins, Dan and John. It was almost amazing how different the boys looked, to be twins. Dan was red-headed and pale like his father, John was tall like his Uncle Jonathan had been, and had hair the color of coffee.

After just a few moments, Aunt Virginia appeared on the porch with some cold lemonade and shortbread scones, eagerly accepted as payment for a job well done. That evening, Virginia had company on the porch, and all of them fell under the spell of the rhythmic creaking of the rocking chair and a cricket serenade against a backdrop of memories.

cathy

 

[Deleted member 93]

Oh thank you. I do love your short stories.