Post by Arc on Jan 1, 2006 23:58:11 GMT -5
I couldn't get page builder to work on geoshitties, so I'm posting this here. =p This is a paper for school, so, rip it apart if you like. =D
The Day the Rains Came
Brown, cold, dead or dying; the barren landscape stretched for miles upon miles. Naked trees reached their arms towards the skies. Their bright green earnings and necklaces of leaves had become brittle and cracked with time, and many were lost or damaged beyond repair. The once vibrant grass carpet at their feet was long wilted and gone, leaving an ugly brown and coarse covering. The rains had long been in coming, and the land suffered for it. A sad whine passed through the aching trees. “How long has it been? Will the rains never come?” The once never-ending hope was fading, drying up like the very springs the trees drew their sustenance from. “Wait, just wait,” the soft call came. “They will come, oh yes, they will come. They always have before. They will again.” Time passed, and the rains did not come. Once damp bark grew brittle, branches broke at the slightest weight. Fear and anxiety grew. Had the end come? Fire was more and more possible. Would they meet their end in a fiery inferno? Yet, the ever-fading hope still shined faintly. “The rains will come, oh yes, they will come.” The orchestra of the landscape, the once ear shattering beauty and paradoxical simplicity grew faint, and then stopped all together. Maybe the rains would not come. Would they come? Maybe, maybe…
The silence grew. It suffocated all in its wake. The trees, the grass, the land itself had given up. Hope had gone, buried under the horrible silence. One final wail shattered the silence. “The rains will not come!” Almost as quickly as it was broken, the silence mended itself, much stronger than before.
Seconds, minutes, hours, maybe even days or years passed. Still, the rains did not come. However, underneath the silence, something was brewing. Anxiety, fear, exaltation, everything and nothing at all, it was impossible to describe, and yet so easy at the same time. Think of the smell of a candle, where the smell is familiar but impossible to place. Regardless, the feeling, whatever it was, was growing, building, and waiting to be released. Finally, it happened.
Rotten limbs and peeling bark, they both could feel it. It loomed just beyond the horizon, mocking them, almost increasing their agony. The tension became almost unbearable, the anxiety brimming, waiting to overflow. Then, they felt it. A distant rumble rattled through the earth, barely perceptible at first, but constantly growing. They could feel the cries of their distant cousins, and knew. It finally came. They worried no more, for they knew salvation had come.
“Look!” one shouted. “The horizon! The horizon!” No, the poor soul was not hallucinating. The tops of dark storm clouds began to peek over the horizon, bringing with them the salvation of rain, the promise of that life-giving water. Aqua vitae, holy water, whatever it was called, they did not care. The rains had finally come.
The clouds advanced agonizingly slow, and for some, the wait was almost too much. Final reserves of patience were depleted, but they did not care. They could only think, “The rains have come! The rains have come!” They waited, trying to arch dead branches toward the clouds, trying to beckon them closer. The dark heralds inched forward, little by little, second by second. The trees knew from their distant cousins that these clouds brought life. They could feel their cousins’ echoing cries of joy, their far-reaching love of life. Wait, yes, that was all they had to do. Wait, and they could partake of the wonder as well.
Drip. The clouds were upon them. Drip drip. The first drops began their descent, shattering on the cracked, dry earth. More followed suit, weaving delightful and intricate patterns in the air. The earth breathed a heavy sigh of relief, its deep cracks finally melting away, and the trees rejoiced with fear of branches splitting in two. The agony faded away, replaced by the same feeling as their cousins. Even the oldest among them remembered what it was like to be a sapling, reveling in the sheer elation of rain. Surely, the trees would have danced that day were they not rooted in the ground. The glistening crystals of water restored their faith and their life, renewing color that was long lost, and simply reminding them that, without fail, the rains will always come.
The rains finally slowed to a halt, with the clouds beating an almost hasty retreat to far off lands. They left in their wake pure, simple life, and the once dead and brown landscape bristled with millions of colors. The rains may very well have been from an artist, painting an elaborate scene on canvas. The trees did not care. The rains had come, and they were alive. A gentle breeze swept through their lush leaves, replicating the sounds of the remote ocean. The clouds and rain smiled; nothing could beat the sight of rejoicing trees and renewed life. Before they disappeared from view, the clouds whispered, almost pleaded to the trees. “Remember this. The rains will always come. Oh yes, the rains will always come.”
Brown, cold, dead or dying; the barren landscape stretched for miles upon miles. Naked trees reached their arms towards the skies. Their bright green earnings and necklaces of leaves had become brittle and cracked with time, and many were lost or damaged beyond repair. The once vibrant grass carpet at their feet was long wilted and gone, leaving an ugly brown and coarse covering. The rains had long been in coming, and the land suffered for it. A sad whine passed through the aching trees. “How long has it been? Will the rains never come?” The once never-ending hope was fading, drying up like the very springs the trees drew their sustenance from. “Wait, just wait,” the soft call came. “They will come, oh yes, they will come. They always have before. They will again.” Time passed, and the rains did not come. Once damp bark grew brittle, branches broke at the slightest weight. Fear and anxiety grew. Had the end come? Fire was more and more possible. Would they meet their end in a fiery inferno? Yet, the ever-fading hope still shined faintly. “The rains will come, oh yes, they will come.” The orchestra of the landscape, the once ear shattering beauty and paradoxical simplicity grew faint, and then stopped all together. Maybe the rains would not come. Would they come? Maybe, maybe…
The silence grew. It suffocated all in its wake. The trees, the grass, the land itself had given up. Hope had gone, buried under the horrible silence. One final wail shattered the silence. “The rains will not come!” Almost as quickly as it was broken, the silence mended itself, much stronger than before.
Seconds, minutes, hours, maybe even days or years passed. Still, the rains did not come. However, underneath the silence, something was brewing. Anxiety, fear, exaltation, everything and nothing at all, it was impossible to describe, and yet so easy at the same time. Think of the smell of a candle, where the smell is familiar but impossible to place. Regardless, the feeling, whatever it was, was growing, building, and waiting to be released. Finally, it happened.
Rotten limbs and peeling bark, they both could feel it. It loomed just beyond the horizon, mocking them, almost increasing their agony. The tension became almost unbearable, the anxiety brimming, waiting to overflow. Then, they felt it. A distant rumble rattled through the earth, barely perceptible at first, but constantly growing. They could feel the cries of their distant cousins, and knew. It finally came. They worried no more, for they knew salvation had come.
“Look!” one shouted. “The horizon! The horizon!” No, the poor soul was not hallucinating. The tops of dark storm clouds began to peek over the horizon, bringing with them the salvation of rain, the promise of that life-giving water. Aqua vitae, holy water, whatever it was called, they did not care. The rains had finally come.
The clouds advanced agonizingly slow, and for some, the wait was almost too much. Final reserves of patience were depleted, but they did not care. They could only think, “The rains have come! The rains have come!” They waited, trying to arch dead branches toward the clouds, trying to beckon them closer. The dark heralds inched forward, little by little, second by second. The trees knew from their distant cousins that these clouds brought life. They could feel their cousins’ echoing cries of joy, their far-reaching love of life. Wait, yes, that was all they had to do. Wait, and they could partake of the wonder as well.
Drip. The clouds were upon them. Drip drip. The first drops began their descent, shattering on the cracked, dry earth. More followed suit, weaving delightful and intricate patterns in the air. The earth breathed a heavy sigh of relief, its deep cracks finally melting away, and the trees rejoiced with fear of branches splitting in two. The agony faded away, replaced by the same feeling as their cousins. Even the oldest among them remembered what it was like to be a sapling, reveling in the sheer elation of rain. Surely, the trees would have danced that day were they not rooted in the ground. The glistening crystals of water restored their faith and their life, renewing color that was long lost, and simply reminding them that, without fail, the rains will always come.
The rains finally slowed to a halt, with the clouds beating an almost hasty retreat to far off lands. They left in their wake pure, simple life, and the once dead and brown landscape bristled with millions of colors. The rains may very well have been from an artist, painting an elaborate scene on canvas. The trees did not care. The rains had come, and they were alive. A gentle breeze swept through their lush leaves, replicating the sounds of the remote ocean. The clouds and rain smiled; nothing could beat the sight of rejoicing trees and renewed life. Before they disappeared from view, the clouds whispered, almost pleaded to the trees. “Remember this. The rains will always come. Oh yes, the rains will always come.”
