Skip to content

Nothing Above But Rain (Flash Fiction)

September 19, 2013

Under_rainy_skies_Wallpaper__yvt2

Rain on the metal roof. The fire Stu pokes with a coat hanger hisses. His face twists into a singed knot. Smoke braids up through the hole in the clamorous ceiling, where all three of them witness the storm wash its purple hands of the sky.

Wendy thinks about poison. Oil rainbowing floodwater, hepatitis vivid. She wonders if her son Robby would ever get over it if she did what she wanted to Stu with that two-by-four.

“I hear something,” Robby shouts.

Rain metal roof. Rustpeel and woodmold. The wallpaper Grandma Eula said looked like clubs on a fancy deck of cards frowns from the wall’s wooden ribs.

Murmuring grows into a motorboat. It ferries them, relief and resentment, to the church.

A minister they hadn’t officially met welcomes them. Once, high on corned beef hash and disability checks, Stu joked about baby rapers and preachers at the diner where the minister treated widowers to breakfast. Baby rapers. Stu insisted the glowering men had not heard. Wendy melted in the booth.

At the church they are one tribe of blankets. They watch as windows squeeze dust into splendor. And though no robed effulgence wafts down to tuck them in under the warming covers of a dying planet, strangenesses come to pass. “I want to show you something.” That verbal trap door is a nickel in a dime-store miracle. It gums the flood- drenched soles of hand-you-down sneakers and other Holy Coats. And it finds all three of them in different shadows around the church at the same time.

“I want to show you something,” says the minister, leading Stu through the rain to the barn—its opening door an oboe for hay bails and light, wet soil and gasoline. “The tractor needs an oil change and I know a few boys who probably never seen that.”

“I don’t know. Things are different on a tractor.”

“Come on, Stu. Won’t you try?”

Stu blinks at the chewed tips of his boots. “I’ll try.”

As Stu gathers materials, he whistles a tune—his grandfather’s, a hymn whose title neither would recognize.

In the chapel, old Mrs. Chettham rummages her purse. Wendy pines for another blanket. She dreads what this woman will show her. How Grandma Eula hated this woman. A seahag at the end of the world lost in her crocodile bag of tricks. Wendy is about to turn away when the old woman perks up—Here it is, I found it. She passes Wendy something small and metal. A fake coin stamped Second Place, 1955. A good luck token, says Chettham, won at the county fair. Your grandmother won first, she says. How I loved Eula, she says. The coin is a hot circle in Wendy’s palm.

Robby follows John Jr. to the second story office. The other boy signals for him to creep to the window. They peek over the sill at the white dog on the patio. John Jr. whispers. Its name is Bentley and Robby should call to it without letting it see. Bentley, Robby says in a deep voice. Bentley, he says again. An ear tip twitches. Then Bentley and Bentley again more deeply. Slowly, the dog sniffs for its name in the mysteries above.

 

 

<originally published in apt>

From → My Stories

12 Comments
  1. So many great lines in here: “one tribe of blankets” “seahag…crocodile bag of tricks” “murmuring turns into a motorboat”!!

  2. gumanorak permalink

    Great stuff. I enjoyed.

  3. This is lovely.

  4. I truly enjoyed it.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: