"Incoming"
by Angela Yuan
You think, not for the first time, that you are tired of watching the sky split open.
...Perhaps that’s an exaggeration. But from your position on a worn black chaise, blearily staring out the window, it’s a fairly apt description of the scene above you; the clouds are an insubstantial white, thin and wisplike—and not two meters away, it is raining cats and dogs.
(Not literal cats and dogs. You’re tired, not delusional.)
The darker, heavier clouds above the downpour slowly invade the clear, blue sky, raindrops marching loudly across the terrain.
You think, somewhat regretfully, that things hadn’t always been this way. You remember how it’d been a delight, once, to see the clouds move as a single entity, the rain pulled along like a watery curtain; it’d been amusing, almost, to watch it draw infinitesimally closer by the second. It had been even more amusing to walk away from the shadowy substance, slowly enough to be just one step ahead of the water; to be only moments away from the storm, thrilling in the risk of being drenched; to be certain that you could always run if you truly wished to; to be safe in the knowledge that, despite the illusion of fear, you could stop the game at any time.
Rain had been beautiful, once.
You wonder why it isn’t anymore. Now the clouds are ink blots and the rain—the ink—is being spilled; and now even trees are just computer paper to you, the ink droplets pressing into that coarse land, marking and judging. And now the ink blots send you envelopes of fractured truths, Ve-ri-tas emblazoned over some self-important coat-of-arms, as if four paper copies are somehow less demeaning than four send-to-all emails.
You think, not for the first time, that you are a little too old—or too young, maybe—to be afraid of a little rain. Or, at least, that’s what they tell you, because the roiling in your gut says otherwise. But you’ve been watching those clouds—those ink blots—for months now, standing by as the dread sinks in like bile, a biting and unsettling chill.
They say it’ll be over come November-December-January, but then the ice will settle in; and sure, for now you have top-notch rain shoes and raincoats and umbrellas, but what if those aren’t enough? The ink blots will drizzle an ‘X’ over you, over the computer paper that is you, is your home and your trees and your surroundings; you’ll hastily assemble the second defense, winter coats and boots, to no avail; Ve-ri-tas will mock you even more than it used to, and, worst of all, it will not be personal to the faceless clouds—no, they will go on but their shadows will follow you, will dog your steps, will blur your footprints. Twelve years is a long time, too long to have wasted.
So you watch with no little sense of trepidation as the clouds drag on ever closer. And you think, oddly, that the sky seems to close—or does it open?—as the ink almost pushes the sun lower and lower and lower until all you see is a faint brightness escaping between the cluster of trees, and you can no longer tell whether is it saying goodbye or waving hello. A beam of light strikes dying branches and you stare, transfixed, as, for a singularly startling second, the browning leaves flash gold.
(And then you remember, perhaps for the first time, how you had thrown yourself face-first into biting snow, undaunted; how you had willingly frozen yourself for the sweet promise of hot cocoa. You remember how you had carved angels into cold ground, and how you’d piled mountains of tiny snowflakes into dazzling palaces that had sparkled under sunlight. You remember, perhaps for the first time, that snow can be beautiful.
You remember how you had rolled your eyes when your parents scrambled for their umbrellas, how you had run ahead to where their protests could not touch you, flanked by shimmering stage curtains. You remember how you never caught cold, despite—and perhaps in spite of—their warnings. You remember how you had pointed joyously, exclaiming in awe at the place where the sky had split open into rivers of shining colors. You remember how you ran straight into the downpour and came out better, came out something more.
You remember, not for the first time, that rain can be beautiful.
And it still is.)
by Angela Yuan
You think, not for the first time, that you are tired of watching the sky split open.
...Perhaps that’s an exaggeration. But from your position on a worn black chaise, blearily staring out the window, it’s a fairly apt description of the scene above you; the clouds are an insubstantial white, thin and wisplike—and not two meters away, it is raining cats and dogs.
(Not literal cats and dogs. You’re tired, not delusional.)
The darker, heavier clouds above the downpour slowly invade the clear, blue sky, raindrops marching loudly across the terrain.
You think, somewhat regretfully, that things hadn’t always been this way. You remember how it’d been a delight, once, to see the clouds move as a single entity, the rain pulled along like a watery curtain; it’d been amusing, almost, to watch it draw infinitesimally closer by the second. It had been even more amusing to walk away from the shadowy substance, slowly enough to be just one step ahead of the water; to be only moments away from the storm, thrilling in the risk of being drenched; to be certain that you could always run if you truly wished to; to be safe in the knowledge that, despite the illusion of fear, you could stop the game at any time.
Rain had been beautiful, once.
You wonder why it isn’t anymore. Now the clouds are ink blots and the rain—the ink—is being spilled; and now even trees are just computer paper to you, the ink droplets pressing into that coarse land, marking and judging. And now the ink blots send you envelopes of fractured truths, Ve-ri-tas emblazoned over some self-important coat-of-arms, as if four paper copies are somehow less demeaning than four send-to-all emails.
You think, not for the first time, that you are a little too old—or too young, maybe—to be afraid of a little rain. Or, at least, that’s what they tell you, because the roiling in your gut says otherwise. But you’ve been watching those clouds—those ink blots—for months now, standing by as the dread sinks in like bile, a biting and unsettling chill.
They say it’ll be over come November-December-January, but then the ice will settle in; and sure, for now you have top-notch rain shoes and raincoats and umbrellas, but what if those aren’t enough? The ink blots will drizzle an ‘X’ over you, over the computer paper that is you, is your home and your trees and your surroundings; you’ll hastily assemble the second defense, winter coats and boots, to no avail; Ve-ri-tas will mock you even more than it used to, and, worst of all, it will not be personal to the faceless clouds—no, they will go on but their shadows will follow you, will dog your steps, will blur your footprints. Twelve years is a long time, too long to have wasted.
So you watch with no little sense of trepidation as the clouds drag on ever closer. And you think, oddly, that the sky seems to close—or does it open?—as the ink almost pushes the sun lower and lower and lower until all you see is a faint brightness escaping between the cluster of trees, and you can no longer tell whether is it saying goodbye or waving hello. A beam of light strikes dying branches and you stare, transfixed, as, for a singularly startling second, the browning leaves flash gold.
(And then you remember, perhaps for the first time, how you had thrown yourself face-first into biting snow, undaunted; how you had willingly frozen yourself for the sweet promise of hot cocoa. You remember how you had carved angels into cold ground, and how you’d piled mountains of tiny snowflakes into dazzling palaces that had sparkled under sunlight. You remember, perhaps for the first time, that snow can be beautiful.
You remember how you had rolled your eyes when your parents scrambled for their umbrellas, how you had run ahead to where their protests could not touch you, flanked by shimmering stage curtains. You remember how you never caught cold, despite—and perhaps in spite of—their warnings. You remember how you had pointed joyously, exclaiming in awe at the place where the sky had split open into rivers of shining colors. You remember how you ran straight into the downpour and came out better, came out something more.
You remember, not for the first time, that rain can be beautiful.
And it still is.)