Cold rain [ by elk robe]
The rain taps its cold fingers, endlessly, against the back of a darkened world. Naked branches shiver in the wind as winter lashes its dominance. Altered by distance, a coyote's howl wavers in mournful distortion.
Walking alone, a woman hurries, choking back panic.
She cusses vapor into saturated air, rain seeping through the shoulders of her coat. She shudders. Prophetically, the flashlight flickers dim.
The face of her watch glows the time, almost three hours from the deserted car. Looking back, the blackness seems to reach for her, with hands shadowed and black. She shivers again, violently, not from the cold.
Maybe she should go back, the car at least was dry. But it seems worlds away, swallowed by the night and rain. How much farther? She isn’t sure, maybe miles, maybe just beyond the halo of light. She presses forwards, trembling with apprehension.
Vaguely she remembers. A farm, near the river, with a fence of cedar. There would be a phone there, one not dependent on signal strength. Thoughts focus on envisioned hugs of relief by mother and daughter. She stops. There's a noise, a drone, maybe a plane… no, a car, far away, approaching.
Encouraged, the pace quickens with visions of rescue, and thoughts of a soft seat, and warm air. The rain is harder now, as if to counter the rise of hope. In the distance, the car moves closer.
A cold lick of water finds its way past her collar, tracing the curve of her spine. She is miserable, her clothes chilled and clinging. Another wail comes from the dark, different from the coyote, baleful, nearer. An ill feeling flushes through her stomach.
Doubt seeps in, cold like the rain. Rescue suddenly seems lined with danger. Why would someone be driving around in the hills? It was late, stormy. She is alone, unarmed, vulnerable to malevolent intent. The odds seem to climb, from sure bet, to sudden-death high stakes.
Stopping again, she listens. Behind, the faint aura of headlights plays against the mist. Her heart pounds, warm breath billowing.
Indecision spins between scenes of comfort and horror. If she stayed her course, it would lead to safety, eventually. But the flashlight is nearly gone now, a weak, flickering shield against blackness. She moves ahead, the only action that, for now, needs no decision.
The wind hisses through the firs around her, trees bend and twist in dance to the storm's symphony. On the treetops, glows the jittery reflection of headlights.
She feels closed in, suffocating, floundering within her anemic bubble of light. Turning the bend, the vehicle stares towards her, with brilliant white eyes.
Panic is instantaneous, complete, primal. She turns towards her left. There is only sheer bank, a wall. A sweep to the right shows brush, and vacuous shadows. Nearly exposed, she jumps.
She is falling, landing hard on her side. Pain flashes from her hip; headlights flash above. Cold- thickened fingers search for injury; her face twists in grimace. She is bathed in darkness; the flashlight is gone.
A motor churns above, exhaust steaming up into the headlights. To her horror, it stops. It's a truck. The lights blink, as a figure crosses before them. She sees only glimpses, pieces of shadow moving in front of the vehicle.
A flashlight beam sears through the darkness above her. Recoiling, she tries to slink down, deeper into layers of brush and moss. Through dripping branches, she watches a black figure, directly above her.
She tries to hold her breath, to control the vapor, but it escapes in ragged puffs. The light sweeps to her left; a scream wells in her chest.
"Hello?" The voice is warped, distorted by rain and motor. The beam passes over her black pants, in its erratic route. Discovery seems imminent. Again, words are shouted, indiscernible. The figure retreats towards the vehicle. She croons her neck; in the glow, she sees it’s a truck, light green.
Realization is slow, fighting through fear and panic. Green truck… the Forest Service! The form, standing in the illuminated doorway, focuses familiar. It is her husband, a ranger, whom she left at High Station, hours ago.
She struggles for footing, her voice squeaking in her throat. The truck door slams, her scream for help unnoticed. Desperation drives her upwards; she cusses into the rain, scrambling towards the road. A dim light shines near the top; it's her flashlight, nearly out. The truck pulls away.
On the road, she tries to run, screaming. Her hip balks at the strain. Hopelessly, she flags the little light, crying pleas to the disappearing taillights. In moments, they are gone.
Limping, she continues after the dimming sounds of the truck. She turns off the light, saving the precious remaining energy. She is no longer afraid; anger burns red in its place. Waves of shivers, violent, wrack her body. Movement is her only chance. She drifts to thoughts of family, stumbling along the blackened ribbon of dirt and gravel.
Something diverts her attention; she stops. Ahead, lights dance on treetops. Exhilaration sweeps through, charging her tired legs. She races forwards, ignoring pain.
The lights are blinding, but she waves her dim beam towards the truck. In her mind, she is talking to him already, explaining, hugging his neck, kissing him.
The truck skids to a stop, rain flickering in the lights. She is crying now, overwhelmed.
Her husband steps into the curtain of light, but in the rain, the image wavers. The smiling face distorts, becoming unfamiliar. In his shadow, she sees the truck is red.
"Well, what do you know Jimmy boy. First a ranger, then a pretty lady, all within a mile. Who says huntin in the rain is no good?"
She turns to run, the flashlight slips to gravel.
The rain harasses a darkened world. A wail rides the night on a cold wind.
A little flashlight flickers to black, and from the night, distorted by distance, comes the mournful call of a coyote.
Cold Rain
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turbotort2000
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Cold Rain
Van Canna,
That was kinda spooky. Where did that come from? What message is it you are trying to send and who is elk robe?
That was kinda spooky. Where did that come from? What message is it you are trying to send and who is elk robe?
Cold Rain
Elk Robe is a native American writer with a very fecund mind.
For years I have been posting threads on this forum with a highly emotional content which is very much part of our martial arts.
The emotions are legion in this particular piece, and so important for the understanding of oneself, yet not too many people pick up on it, or even try to reconcile the emotional component, preferring instead to focus on technique.
You are one of the few to "pick up" on the message and I congratulate you.
The Women of this forum,in particular, continue to surprise me in their indifference to the emotional messages which are contained in geat numbers here and other stories.
On the Italian martial arts news group, the women as well as men, discuss emotions much more than their American counterpart.
I encourage all readers to use their imagination and write impressions being evoked by the stories.
------------------
Van Canna
For years I have been posting threads on this forum with a highly emotional content which is very much part of our martial arts.
The emotions are legion in this particular piece, and so important for the understanding of oneself, yet not too many people pick up on it, or even try to reconcile the emotional component, preferring instead to focus on technique.
You are one of the few to "pick up" on the message and I congratulate you.
The Women of this forum,in particular, continue to surprise me in their indifference to the emotional messages which are contained in geat numbers here and other stories.
On the Italian martial arts news group, the women as well as men, discuss emotions much more than their American counterpart.
I encourage all readers to use their imagination and write impressions being evoked by the stories.
------------------
Van Canna
Cold Rain
Elk robe <BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial">quote:</font><HR>The sound of rain drums in my head. Cold wet fingers tapping on my skull and messing with my thoughts.
Soaked to the bone, I sit with my back against the mossy torso of an old matriarch maple. My clicking teeth working in unison with the constant icy deluge from an invisible sky.
What a wonderland our minds become when isolated from their protective senses.
Stumbling like a blind man among the tangles and twists of this vegetation-choked world, my mind struggles against illusionary unknowns.
Time fades into distortion, along with my reasons and motivation to be here. I have to bolster my resolve, and remind myself that I am here on a mission, a mission of discovery.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
Soaked to the bone, I sit with my back against the mossy torso of an old matriarch maple. My clicking teeth working in unison with the constant icy deluge from an invisible sky.
What a wonderland our minds become when isolated from their protective senses.
Stumbling like a blind man among the tangles and twists of this vegetation-choked world, my mind struggles against illusionary unknowns.
Time fades into distortion, along with my reasons and motivation to be here. I have to bolster my resolve, and remind myself that I am here on a mission, a mission of discovery.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
Cold Rain
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial">quote
She distracted herself from thinking too deeply of ugly things by running her graceful fingers through her short, black curls, twisting them, fluffing them into place. She had grown up wearing her hair long, hanging down to her waist in the night, braided and looped in a weighty, gleaming pile on her head during the public hours of day. She had felt so daringly liberated when she cropped it and even now, the freedom of it being short lightened her spirits.
Cold Rain
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial">quote
I was once told that life is a book that can never be reread. Once you've turned the page, all you can do is remember. You have to hope that someone else is reading the same book, so you can reminisce. We are, in a way, reading the same plot, but no one puts the same stress on the same syllables and everybody has different main characters. For me, in my book, I watched the story happen, but still wound up being a lot of people's main character.
Cold Rain
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial">quote:</font><HR> Time slowed down.
Looking down behind the silhouette of his feet, the steps seemed to come toward him in a series of still-shots that he was allowed to gaze and study. His body turned and somersaulted, as he flew down. Face down, his arms stretched forward.
Accepting his killer, he closed his eyes as the air skimmed past his skin. The the air seemed to clean past him as it shaved his body and made him lighter.
Opening his eyes one last time, he saw the steps to his apartment about a foot away from his face. One flash later, everything was gone.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
Looking down behind the silhouette of his feet, the steps seemed to come toward him in a series of still-shots that he was allowed to gaze and study. His body turned and somersaulted, as he flew down. Face down, his arms stretched forward.
Accepting his killer, he closed his eyes as the air skimmed past his skin. The the air seemed to clean past him as it shaved his body and made him lighter.
Opening his eyes one last time, he saw the steps to his apartment about a foot away from his face. One flash later, everything was gone.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
Cold Rain
<BLOCKQUOTE><font size="1" face="Verdana, Arial">quote:</font><HR> Part of the alarming nature of the unknown is its mysterious link to the known. I awake each night to a lewd exhibition of the merging. I open my eyes and turn to see the digital alarm clock, sitting on the lamp table next to my bed and see 12:12, then 1:11 am, 2:22 am, 3:33 am and then 4:44 am.
This distresses me so badly upon awakening that I cannot think; just a wave of panic that SOMETHING is awaking me, as the calculated odds of awakening each night precisely at those specific times is astronomically impossible.
The message intended seems to throw me off balance and keep me wrapped in fearful confusion and lets me know that I am being toyed with, but yields no greater insight than to let me know that when I sleep, I wander amongst monsters and beasties.
Out of the body attacks differ from my dreams in their vivid 3d total sensory envelopment and the inherent viciousness in provoking angst, realistic in every way as compared to consciousness.
The perspective is waking to find I am asleep wrapped in delusional thoughts and scenes, dreams so aligned with negative thoughts that the scenarios reveal that they are imposed, by virtue of their worst scenario plots and their vividness.
They, whomever these discorporate negative thought entities are, are masters of delusions and I have recognized the raw power of the vividness as more than my murky dream scenarios could ever muster and am convinced we are dead wrong about the nature of dreaming.
At night, your astral body travels to realms from angelic to demonic, a spirit world of myriad vibrational levels and the pictures you see on the backs of your eyelids, while you R.E.M., are not dreams but visits.
Souvenirs of a greater reality, like a goldfish who never suspects a greater world beyond the ponds surface, the limited awareness of humankind floats beneath the surface of a greater reality; groping, mouth agape in total ignorance.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
This distresses me so badly upon awakening that I cannot think; just a wave of panic that SOMETHING is awaking me, as the calculated odds of awakening each night precisely at those specific times is astronomically impossible.
The message intended seems to throw me off balance and keep me wrapped in fearful confusion and lets me know that I am being toyed with, but yields no greater insight than to let me know that when I sleep, I wander amongst monsters and beasties.
Out of the body attacks differ from my dreams in their vivid 3d total sensory envelopment and the inherent viciousness in provoking angst, realistic in every way as compared to consciousness.
The perspective is waking to find I am asleep wrapped in delusional thoughts and scenes, dreams so aligned with negative thoughts that the scenarios reveal that they are imposed, by virtue of their worst scenario plots and their vividness.
They, whomever these discorporate negative thought entities are, are masters of delusions and I have recognized the raw power of the vividness as more than my murky dream scenarios could ever muster and am convinced we are dead wrong about the nature of dreaming.
At night, your astral body travels to realms from angelic to demonic, a spirit world of myriad vibrational levels and the pictures you see on the backs of your eyelids, while you R.E.M., are not dreams but visits.
Souvenirs of a greater reality, like a goldfish who never suspects a greater world beyond the ponds surface, the limited awareness of humankind floats beneath the surface of a greater reality; groping, mouth agape in total ignorance.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>
