(16 ratings) Rate this Story (5 best) 1 2 3 4 5

SUMMARY: An entry in the "torrential" flash fiction contest.

My memories lay lost in appalling vistas where my conscious knows not. They present a world blurred by the resonance of dreams. A world crafted by time frozen frames, a series of guises amidst sub conscious insecurities held by those who fear the rain.

The mediation of inner fears that drive those insane, identities moulded and scorned in the world that is rain. The lonely moonlight shines down on the monstrous street whose cold frightful eyes stare harshly. Death will soon bleed from the skies, as the killer forms I hear the relentless cries.

Mist twirls across the mutedly lit street, the far crying echoes retaliate against the wind. My identity is clouded and confused. My hope falls, as I stare into the void of a world that cannot hold. The killer gathers strength and stealthily forms mist cloaked. The forgotten street seems endless, the forlorn street lamps sing in solitude.

Crude grotesque bins stray propos the street curbs, reflecting the lonesome moonlight. The street is empty and as I stand alone I recall the chimes that came every now and then from distant belfries. I seemed to keep track of those chimes with a peculiar intentness, as if I feared to hear some very remote, intruding note amongst them.

The murderous sky unloads its ordnance creating a blasting concurrence unsettling the harmonious ambiences that once were. The arsenal descends down leaving nothing uncovered. I stay strong as I recall my days in the sun, the time when we knew what happiness was. Culpable whimpering sounds out from those who have let fear absorb them, those who now feel pain and their heartbeats deaden when in contact the rain. I am there with only my memory in the moonlights rain.

The street that holds no beginning and knows no end is now engulfed, as the skies ammunition makes undulations on the twisted bins. The treacherous and frightful sound greatens and with it the fearful cries. I feel cold as the star swept currents make me shiver. Another street lamp dies, killed by the hateful skies. The harangue that cascades down hurts the hopeless street, the tributary infesting its withered cracks.

The shivering bins whisper frightful thoughts as they struggle with the onslaught. With the painful rain dripping off my quivering body I look up towards the sky to imagine the days of old, the days of joy. The bitter times came soon after, through the curses of our selfish fore fathers. Their unthinkable actions that they indulged in would not corollary destruct their way of life or castigate them.

The nightmare would be left for us, no confessional warning, just the damning future, the evil that is global warming. The heavy shelling begins to fade as does the fearful cries, all those worried of the world that dies. I remember the idyllic, blissful sunny days of June as I am there alone with my mémoire dans la pluie de clairs de lune.