Hello and in lieu of my current self-revelations that I write way too many short stories, that aren’t actually short by any means, but actually a string of short stories, comprising together to form a sort of pseudo novella, I have come to hold off on posting any of them. I currently have to sort out my long standing and very back burner collection of “short stories” that I have and actually stick to at least one or two of them and finish them. So once I have that sorted out expect that to be the main theme for the coming weeks, but for now, something short and sweet that I wrote a while ago about a boy who just wants to get something for his dead mother. Morbid? Yes, but written to invoke a sense of heartwarming. Here you go, “Rain Boy”
It’s raining. Just like my mom always said, it only comes out when it’s raining. Every day, when it rains, I take my clear umbrella, and go outside. I put on a thick coat, and a warm blue hat, and put on yellow rain boots. I always say, “I’m heading out!” But I know my father is out at work, and the only one to hear it is my mom. But she never answers back.
I take a quick peek up at the sky as I take my first step onto the walkway. The skies are gray, and the clouds are crying. I open the umbrella in my hand, and bring it above me. As I walk onto the street, I look through my umbrella, and into the sky. It’s the only reason why I like clear umbrellas. I begin to concentrate as the rain drops fall onto my umbrella, making a satisfying pitter patter. But that only catches my attention for a short moment. I know I have something to do whenever I come out during the rain.
I have no idea what the name of the flower I was looking for is. The only bit of information I do know about the flower is from my mother. She told me that the flower was bright blue, and is the only flower that is going to be in bloom when it rains. In fact, it can only ever exist if it rains, and if it does not, then it dies. And so, as I walk down the street, I made it a habit to look at every corner, and every small crevice to see if a small flower was blooming.
I memorized the streets, but even so, I had a habit to look at the grass fields, the gardens of neighbors, and the park as I walk pass them. I want to look at every single place in the world, but I know that it is impossible for me to do so. I am happy that I can at least look around my small town, and I know that as long as I keep looking, I will find the flower.
Today the rain is very strong. It crashes onto my umbrella like a hammer to nails, and the sound becomes mud. Soon enough, it breaks my concentration, and now I only want to go back home where I can rest and wait for the next day it rains. But I do not, and I walk forward, with my eyes on the ground, looking for that blue flower.
Soon enough I hear the sounds of other footsteps. At this point, I know what to expect. As I walk closer to them, I make my step a little to the right so that I don’t bump into them. But when I walk pass them, I hear them say, “It’s the rain boy again.” And, “He’s always out when it’s raining.”
“It’s for my mother,” I wish to say. But I do not speak, and I continue to walk forward down the street. I know as my rain boots splash upon each step that the rain is coming down hard. It is an expression that my father uses when the rain is really bad and that thunder might come. I do not hear thunder as I walk down, and so I know I have a little more time to find that blue flower.
I did not know how long I was walking down the street, but I made it to the end. I know that my dad will get mad if I continue any longer, so I stop. I turn, and walk back up to my house. As I make each new step back up the street, I notice something blue in the corner of my eye. It is on the other side of the street. Before I cross, I look both ways, and then lower my body to pick it. It is a beautiful flower, and when I bring it up to my nose, it’s aroma reminds me of the nice spring days we used to have. The pattering of the rain on my umbrella begin to stop, and I look up to see that the skies are clear. The blue flower in my hand begins to wither away, and die. I mark this place in my head, and quickly head home.
Today is the next rain. I race my way to where the flower is, and just like before, it stands beautifully blue. I pick it, and run towards where I need to put this flower. I have visited her plenty of times before, so it is no surprise that I arrive without much time to waste. I step over mounds and make sure that I do not bump into any gravestones. I scan the names as I walk by each stone, saying a silent prayer as I do. Once I find my mother’s name, I lean over and place the blue flower near the soil. I wait for a few moments, and give a big prayer to her. I smile as I begin to leave.
“I finally found it mom,” I say out loud. And I feel a tear fall from my face. I smile and look up through my umbrella, to see that the sun is up. I make my way home, and as I open the door I yell, “I’m home!” I receive no answer, because I know dad is still at work, and mom never answers back.