Waving Rain
He looked up at the sky. He interlaced his fingers and tucked them below his head. If anyone had taken a drone shot, it would have looked like he was lying down on a deformed rhombus-hollow pillow.
Cloud watching preferably became his obsession to satisfy his all-time-weird artistry sense (foes say so). He never upsets his foes. He was staring at the sky but frequently staring back at his old mini notebook. He had been carrying notebooks since childhood. He calls it “a nice habit”. In the future, these notebooks can also be framed as a reflection of his consistency. He picked up his phone. The digital clock just struck “sixteen”. The wallpaper was pretty boring; a black background, and at the corner, a leafless tree ogling like an ancient ghost. He placed the phone on top of the notebook. Perhaps he hoped to enjoy the serenity. He tried arranging the dendrites to draw images of his disoriented lifestyle. His great panache showed off in his eyes.
Something pinched his neck, and then it was moving towards the armpit. He plucked it out and muttered in his deep, baritone voice, “Bloody beetle!”
He felt like giving it a nice smashing experience. He charily grabbed his notebook. But by a few seconds the beetle had moved along his long fingers. He saw it and stopped. He tilted it toward his palm and then covered that with his left hand. Perhaps his left hand touched the elytron. He whispered some words. He chatted with the beetle for some time. It of course looked unusual when he started sniffling. But it was rather momentary. His indistinctive whispering was fading away with the gradually clear whooshing sound of the storm. A drop fell on his wrist. He looked up, and his face got almost a hundred drops at once. He shook off his hand and said,”Go buddy!”
The beetle ran frantically through the recently bathed grasses.
He hurriedly stood up and took his notebook in one pocket and the phone in another. And he ran. He ran so fast that he almost looked like a lunatic.
“Anyone would have missed the calculation of relative velocity…if…if they looked at me.”
After some days, he wrote this scattered line in his notebook. These next few days were pretty different, rather dulcet.
That afternoon, he almost ripped out the waves of the rain. He looked here and there for some shelter. He could see nothing in that heavy rain. Everything was so blurry. He could feel that he was in a teary children’s park. He heard the clattering sound of the swings. He bent. He touched his thighs. He could sense his throbbing heart. He squeezed some water from the bottom hem of his blue t-shirt. He saw a glimpse of a rainbow. Certainly, it was not a perfect one, but it was there. He gave a loud, spontaneous laugh.