Rain Boy

Rain Boy

The midday sun beat down on Blackberry Street. Although no one could remember there ever being real blackberries on the street, it had once been lined with a row of poplars that provided shade from such sweltering days as these. No longer, since the trees had become too tall for their root systems. The threat of them falling during a storm had become more than the residents wanted to risk. They had all been cut down a year ago, leaving nothing but dry stumps as evidence of the past.

So the street baked in the August heat of that noon time. Nothing moved in the stillness, not even a breath of wind venturing into the bright sunlight. The world held its breath.

Then, at the far end of the street, a boy, perhaps ten years old, appeared around the corner. Hands in pockets, he was kicking an old tin can ahead of him as he slouched along. The can chose to begin the journey down Blackberry Street and the boy followed.

It became obvious that neither the can nor the boy had any destination in mind in their travels. When kicked, the can could veer left or right or continue straight ahead, dependent on the edges it landed upon and any obstacles in its way. And the boy seemed unconcerned with his own direction, merely agreeing to the route the can adopted.

They made their way slowly down the street, wandering haphazardly from gutter to crown and back again, apparently unaffected by the heat.

The boy was halfway to the end of the street when he paused. He looked up at the sky, not noticing as the can rattled to a stop in a gutter. The washed out blue of the sky had taken on a darker hue and now dark clouds could be seen massing above the houses to the west.

A gust of wind blew a phantom of dust along the ground and some withered leaves followed in its wake. The temperature began to drop, noticeably as the wind freshened and became constant. Still the boy remained, staring up into the sky.

The clouds were racing now, devouring blue sky as they advanced, and the sun disappeared behind the leading edge of the looming darkness. A few fat, first drops of rain landed, throwing up little puffs of dirt from their impact. Darker spots appeared on the dull, khaki shirt of the boy.

And then the storm was on him and rain began to fall in great sheets that billowed in the rising wind. The boy was soaked in moments but still he stood there, apparently transfixed by the sudden change in his surroundings. His clothes were darker now they were creatures of the rain and he began to appear dim against the backdrop of the falling torrent.

The gutters filled with rushing waters, boisterous streams that lifted the can and bore it, tossing and turning, out of sight. The road itself became a river, slightly humped in the middle and frantic with activity as the rain smashed itself in suicidal rush against it.

The boy stood, a silent sentinel in the downpour.

His hands had left his pockets and he now raised them above his head, as though trying to catch the rain. He was no more than a dark silhouette in the deluge and highlights shone softly on his skin, as though it were transforming into the glistening hide of a seal.

Still the rain poured down and the boy began to make great arcs with his arms, bringing them down to his sides, only to lift them up again overhead. Then down again they came, until his arms were making swimming motions into the water falling in sheets upon him.

The shadow that he had become began to move upwards slowly. At first inch by inch, but with gathering pace, he left the surface of the road and rose into the storm. In a little while he was almost invisible against the darkness of the clouds, still moving upwards, swimming into the sky.

Then he was gone, nothing more than a memory that might have been. When the rain stopped, a new world was born.


Word count: 700
Winner of No Dialogue Contest - Happy Birthday WDC, September 2022
Prompt: None.