The Rain a Father

Short.

            The rain fell in heavy drops. The roar it made was loud and tumultuous, not like a soothing drizzle. It dripped down from the overhang that jutted out from the house and covered the porch, running off sideways and splashing into the grass. The gutter was leaking in one spot on the side, and where it ran down the corner its mouth was gushing into a puddle. The door was unlocked when he tried to open it.

            He stepped outside. Even though it was a summer, the storm was cold. The runoff from the roof was making a wall of water over the stairs, like a screen of liquid beads, before splashing constantly into the solid concrete. Without pausing to look back, he stared into the storm and closed the door.

He ventured through the screen of water. His feet splashed in the puddles as he huddled over and half-jogged, half-walked out to his car—the way you do when it’s raining.

The car was in the driveway. Hardly damp, he got in and turned it on. The music from the stereo kicked in, and was whispered quietly; it was the kind you turn to on a rainy day. There was lightning and the stereo faded to white noise at the same time. Now the door was open again and there was a man who looked like the man in the car only older and he was standing on the front porch. The man in the car saw him out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t turn to look.

He reversed out of the driveway and headed to the other house. He saw two bolts of lightning, and the stereo cackled two times. The concrete was solid but slick, and the rain fell down even harder as the man turned the wipers up to their full speed. He wondered about the concrete, and how it could take so much pressure.

Water dripped down the man’s face. The radio faded out again a few more times, with intermittent sounds of thunder.

 

            The lady that was there didn’t look like him. He could hear the annoyance in their voices when they said goodbye and the older man, love you. He didn’t care, said bye, I’m heading home once more, but didn’t stick around. The door was unlocked. He said home. That must’ve been why he followed me outside.

 

            He pulled up to the house and waited a moment just to listen to the stereo. Just to watch as the horizon lit up with colors like a Puerto. The song faded in and out a few times when the dashboard flashed white, then gradually trailed off.

He half-jogged up to the porch. The door was locked. He unlocked it and headed up the stairs, past the noise of television.

            The stairs made a poor sound barrier. Up and around the corner, the dog was up by the door to his room, shivering. Thunderstorms always frightened him.

With each flash and reverberation of thunder, the dog whimpered and the radio faded in and out and the concrete turned to glass somewhere in a place the man didn’t know, and the man didn’t know. So the man sat down and tried to calm him, all the while admiring concrete.

Author's Note

Thoughts on: simplistic writing scheme, mixing of POVs, overall lack of clarity in select spots.

Reviews

[brinkley]

It's not really clear who's speaking in the italicized voice, even within it (that one me?)

I love the way it's written, though--descriptive without being overly verbose, which is a challenge for some people. And I liked the story line--you managed to get a lot across in a few paragraphs.

Consider this one thoroughly enjoyed. :]