Rainfall (A Poetic tale done in Poetic-prose)
Rainfall
((A Poetic Tale of (prose) on the Town-let: Quilcas, in AD 1799)
(A story about Faith))
One among them walked close to the Lord, whose little farm village stormed often with dryness, and the lack of rainfall, which the farmers often complained of such, as they’d often say, ‘Unkissed by God,’ then you’d find them in the local bar; the sharpness of their tongues came blazing out, “We are kings in hell,” old Antonio would say. Manuel, he’d just look dreamless and murmur, “Couched in hell, mewed for Hades,” and take another drink with the drunken-dead in the bar crowed, waiting for a rainfall.
But then there was Able, whose breast was full of the Lord, he was, yes he was the one who among them walked close to the Lord. Whose throat was always of a sweeten song, blown to be, who gave singing and praise to the Lord, for all that was, especially for rainfall. To some of the town’s folks he was an encaged bird of claptrap, or better put, a boy of nuisance. But he had faith, faith bigger than a mustered seed, so unusual it was, it bothered people, the towns folks, to the point it made them restless, and when they saw him they moaned with hands and throat, almost hissing at him.
He’d tell his father at times, “It’s been dry for a long spell, I shall pray for a rainfall, “gleaming at his father, like a fish unmouthed. And each, his father and mother would simply say, “Please do son,” and the boy would open the door and the rain would come, tides of rain, a great downfall of rain. This started during his formal reasoning years, when he could pray to God, and understood between rocks and stars, dry and wet, heaven and hell, and now at the age of twenty-one, it still was a hum, a whirr in his heart.
The boy would then stand and sing in the outside air, under the purposeful clouds of rain, looking up at the sky as if it was a sky-hill, knowing the harvest would be bountiful now. And to be quite honest, the villagers were bewildered, and left well enough alone, thinking the boy was simply a wind in cave of bats, as if he was just crazy, mad, or perhaps extreme.
It was this one night, a calm indifferent night it seemed, when the farmland outside the little village, had been dry for a very long spell, and there was to crop or yield to be, and in the local bar there was much despair of breath, even the priest had locked the church doors, in fear the dark hearts of the village bar, once drunk, would break the long silence and create anarchy. And thus, Able walked through the doors of the bar, it was a sleeping gate to hell, and it seemed he had waked the gnawing, gaunt knees of the colorless faces of the bar herd—feeling sorry for themselves, listening to sad and depressing music from minstrels playing over in the corner of the bar, at which point, within this unsterile atmosphere, and among the un-purified voices, he stood sole and lean in the center of the bar, a brother to no one, yet to all, weary were the faces, and their courtesy to him. Said Able, to the herd, standing on the wooden floor, a faded plateau, “Shhhhhh,” he said politely, “I shall pray for your crops,” and Antonio quickly said, “Pray, it is too late, plus, you are but a crazy fool, go home before you get hurt!”
But it was more than Manuel could take, like a wild battalion and pale he crossed over from his table to and zapped Able in the face with a powerful blow, as he was praying. All saw the boy fall to his knees, his last words being: “Please Lord, let there be a rainfall.”
There was no brilliant counterattack, he was dead, and when Manuel got his senses back he ran out, through the bar doors, and into the rain.
Note. 2098 12-13-2007 (The story is completely fiction; for those who live in this lovely little town-let of Quilcas, in the Montero Valley of Peru, are warm and friendly, but it just happens to be, the story came to mind, and I am on my way to the village now, and it will be my second trip there in two years, to see the old ruins on its hillside, so those good folks who read this story from the town, please do not take offense) Dedicated to Alex Medina
((A Poetic Tale of (prose) on the Town-let: Quilcas, in AD 1799)
(A story about Faith))
One among them walked close to the Lord, whose little farm village stormed often with dryness, and the lack of rainfall, which the farmers often complained of such, as they’d often say, ‘Unkissed by God,’ then you’d find them in the local bar; the sharpness of their tongues came blazing out, “We are kings in hell,” old Antonio would say. Manuel, he’d just look dreamless and murmur, “Couched in hell, mewed for Hades,” and take another drink with the drunken-dead in the bar crowed, waiting for a rainfall.
But then there was Able, whose breast was full of the Lord, he was, yes he was the one who among them walked close to the Lord. Whose throat was always of a sweeten song, blown to be, who gave singing and praise to the Lord, for all that was, especially for rainfall. To some of the town’s folks he was an encaged bird of claptrap, or better put, a boy of nuisance. But he had faith, faith bigger than a mustered seed, so unusual it was, it bothered people, the towns folks, to the point it made them restless, and when they saw him they moaned with hands and throat, almost hissing at him.
He’d tell his father at times, “It’s been dry for a long spell, I shall pray for a rainfall, “gleaming at his father, like a fish unmouthed. And each, his father and mother would simply say, “Please do son,” and the boy would open the door and the rain would come, tides of rain, a great downfall of rain. This started during his formal reasoning years, when he could pray to God, and understood between rocks and stars, dry and wet, heaven and hell, and now at the age of twenty-one, it still was a hum, a whirr in his heart.
The boy would then stand and sing in the outside air, under the purposeful clouds of rain, looking up at the sky as if it was a sky-hill, knowing the harvest would be bountiful now. And to be quite honest, the villagers were bewildered, and left well enough alone, thinking the boy was simply a wind in cave of bats, as if he was just crazy, mad, or perhaps extreme.
It was this one night, a calm indifferent night it seemed, when the farmland outside the little village, had been dry for a very long spell, and there was to crop or yield to be, and in the local bar there was much despair of breath, even the priest had locked the church doors, in fear the dark hearts of the village bar, once drunk, would break the long silence and create anarchy. And thus, Able walked through the doors of the bar, it was a sleeping gate to hell, and it seemed he had waked the gnawing, gaunt knees of the colorless faces of the bar herd—feeling sorry for themselves, listening to sad and depressing music from minstrels playing over in the corner of the bar, at which point, within this unsterile atmosphere, and among the un-purified voices, he stood sole and lean in the center of the bar, a brother to no one, yet to all, weary were the faces, and their courtesy to him. Said Able, to the herd, standing on the wooden floor, a faded plateau, “Shhhhhh,” he said politely, “I shall pray for your crops,” and Antonio quickly said, “Pray, it is too late, plus, you are but a crazy fool, go home before you get hurt!”
But it was more than Manuel could take, like a wild battalion and pale he crossed over from his table to and zapped Able in the face with a powerful blow, as he was praying. All saw the boy fall to his knees, his last words being: “Please Lord, let there be a rainfall.”
There was no brilliant counterattack, he was dead, and when Manuel got his senses back he ran out, through the bar doors, and into the rain.
Note. 2098 12-13-2007 (The story is completely fiction; for those who live in this lovely little town-let of Quilcas, in the Montero Valley of Peru, are warm and friendly, but it just happens to be, the story came to mind, and I am on my way to the village now, and it will be my second trip there in two years, to see the old ruins on its hillside, so those good folks who read this story from the town, please do not take offense) Dedicated to Alex Medina
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 12:14 PM
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