Shorts for Young Adults

Rain

 His mind was full of demons fighting for his attention; unwilling to compromise to his many needs.

 “No, no” he whispered breathlessly in the cool afternoon air, “don’t go, Lindy, don’t go,” as he stumbled blindly past twisted brush oak and fresh thicket.  A rush of tears outlined the desperation creasing his face.

He continued through the wet underbrush-- headed to nowhere in particular -- unable to remember from which direction he had come.  At that moment he didn’t care.  Soaked branches whipped his face as he turned in one direction and then another, tripping over thick clumps of tall grass.  The outside sounds were strange, much unlike the inside noises he was used to.  It assaulted his senses with whispers and a constant taunting he couldn’t understand.  Still, he had no mind for anything but to escape.

And then a distinct tap on his shoulder caused him to whip in the direction it had come, to see who had touched him.  Then another reached for his back, and another, his other shoulder.  He swung his hands in the air to strike at an unseen tormentor.  But the tapping continued; on his head and his arms, his hands, the pants covering his legs, several times, marking his jacket with droplets of water that rolled to a crease then fell to the soaked ground.

“Stop it!” he shouted and held his hands over his ears, but the tapping continued and increased in number.

Large drops of water fell from the sky and hit the ground around him.  His jacket repelled the attack of angry splashes, but he still wasn’t comforted.  His hair absorbed the moisture much like the grass beneath his feet.

“What’s wrong?” he heard a whisper through the falling rain.

“Stop it!  Leave me alone!” he shouted back and dashed, clumsily, through the downpour.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What, what’s wrong?” the words followed him and echoed in his mind as he turned and slipped and recovered again, then ducked beneath the fanned branches of a nearby tree.

The protected ground was dry and soft with dried needles, so he slid carefully down into the thick cloak of the pine.  With his knees pulled to his chest and his hands to his ears, he closed his eyes tightly and rocked back and forth, while the taps and the whispers taunted and tormented.

After a time, a gentle melody crept into his confused mind.  He hummed to himself and rocked to the beat, shutting out the foreign sounds and calming his scattered thoughts with familiarity.  He desired something to remind him of home.  Tensed muscles finally relaxed and a worried mind released its demons.  But then he realized there was another voice singing with him.  Only one other person in the world knew his song.  He looked around, but there wasn’t another soul nearby.  Only the thick branches of the spruce tree and heavy drops of rain surrounded him.  It was then that he noticed her for the very first time. 

Bare feet with small, curled toes stood in the wet grass outside his shelter.  He peered through the branches and saw a sweet face with big gray eyes and ash-blond hair.  She smiled at him as she sang his song in the droplets of cool spring rain.  Her eyes sparkled like momma’s shiny earrings.  She was striking and she scared him. 

Then the music stopped and he hid once again beneath the branches of the tree.

“Why are you hiding there?” a soft voice asked from outside the protective cover. 

The boy opened his eyes and saw the girl peering at him through the needles, just under a slope of branches.  She smiled again and her twinkling eyes glistened as tiny drops fell from her long strands of hair.

“Come out and play with me,” she insisted with an inviting smile as her small fingers reached for his.  “Come.”

He reached out his hand with slight hesitation, then leaned forward on his knees and touched her wet fingertips.  They were cool and smooth, like the liquid from momma’s fancy bottle in the bathroom.  But the smell wasn’t strong or overly sweet.  She smelled fresh and clean like the soap in his tub.  And she shined in the drops of rain like a lone white cloud against a cold, gray sky.  His spirit felt fresh and new as he stared at the dripping figure in front of him.

She wrapped her fingers around his and pulled him through the wall of pine.  Then his hand slipped away as she turned and dashed through the grass, past the drenched trees. 

He watched the girl go-- water flying in the air as she ran-- and then she stopped and turned in circles with her arms stretched out to her sides.  A smile slipped over his lips as he watched, mesmerized by the graceful motion of her hands and fingers and long, soaked hair dancing gracefully in the heavy shower.  He looked down at the fingers that had touched hers and then put them to his lips and felt the cool softness on his mouth. 

Soon he followed her into the open.  Gentle whispers soothed his mind as he joined in the play, his arms stretched out wide and the drops of rain pouring over his body.  As he turned in the grass, the clouds twisted above him, mingling with branches of green leaves, until they became one.  He began to giggle and then a deep, rolling roar came up from his belly.  Before long he was laughing so hard he could no longer stand and fell to the earth with a great splash.  He lay on his back and breathed in the cool, wet air with a tremendous smile on his face.

“What do they call you?” the sweet voice came from his side.

The girl had stopped twirling and was sitting beside him with twinkling eyes and shiny hair.  Her face was alight with youth and happiness.

“They call me Tom,” the boy answered.  “What do they call you?”

“Rain,” the girl told him.  “My name is Rain.”

“Rain,” Tom replied.  “You smell like Rain.”  He smiled at the girl as she grinned back at him.

“How old are you, Tom?” Rain asked.

“Nine, I’m nine years old,” he answered and hesitated for a moment.  “Am I too old to play with you, Rain?” he asked sadly.

“No, you’re the perfect age, Tom, you’re just perfect.”  Her bright eyes flashed like lightning and she rose to her feet and turned away from him once again.  “Catch me, Tom!” she shouted as she flew down a small hill and through a soggy meadow.

Tom jumped to his feet and followed after her, laughing as he stumbled over rocks and uneven ground.  In the meadow she stretched out her arms and turned in place again, like a radiant spinning top.  When Tom reached her he slipped his arms around her waist and lifted her to the sky.  She cried out like a jubilant clap of thunder through the air.  The boy threw back his head and giggled blissfully as he spun her around. 

Then Rain slipped down the front of Tom’s jacket and he stood holding her hands in his and gazing into her smiling eyes.  Their fingers locked around each other as they stood together in the open field.

“Tom, why were you so sad, when I first saw you?” the girl asked with a smile.  “Why were you sad, Tom?”

He stopped for a moment in remembrance and then shook his head and turned away from her.  He felt cold and empty once again.  Rain touched his shoulder, but he pushed her away and rushed back up the hill, searching for the tree that had once given him comfort.

“Tom?” she called after him. “Tom, Tom,” her voice echoed in his head.

“No, I won’t go!” he said and slipped beneath the thick branches.

Rain sat on the ground outside the perimeter of the tree and crossed her legs.  “Tom?” she asked quietly, but he did not answer.  “Am I your friend?”

Tom didn’t say a word.  He sat with his knees pulled to his chest and his arms wrapped around his shins.  He nodded quickly and then stared straight ahead.

“You don’t have to go, Tom.” she said and Tom shook his head ‘no.’  “You can stay here,” she said softly.

“Can I stay with you, forever?” he asked shyly.

Rain leaned down to peer under the branches and her wet face shimmered.  She smiled and nodded.  Tom smiled back.

“I’m sleepy, Rain.  It’s dark now and I need to sleep,” he told the girl outside his tree.

“I’ll wait here with you while you sleep,” she told him with a happy glint in her eyes.

“I’m cold.  Come sleep with me and get warm,” Tom pleaded, but Rain shook her head.

“I must stay here, but I will wait for you until it is light again,” she answered soothingly.

Tom was comforted by her smile and slowly closed his eyes.  At times throughout the night, he awoke with a start until he heard Rain rustling outside.  Then he drifted off to a dream-filled slumber. 

When he awoke from a deep sleep, the sun had risen and the chirp of birds could be heard in the nearby trees.  He rolled over and looked for Rain, but he could not see her pale legs or curled toes.  He rose to his knees and pushed clumsily through the prickly wall, searching for the thick strands of shimmering hair and glittering, deep gray eyes.  He rushed past the trees and down the small hill, sloshing through the soaked meadow.  His chest felt heavy and he could hardly breathe when he realized Rain had gone.  He fell to his knees and placed his hands in the grass-- pulling dew to his nose and breathing in her scent.  She was gone.  She promised she’d stay and then left him.  His heart ached as he cried out for her on the cold, morning air.  His lungs were on fire and his body ached all over.  Panic had stolen his thoughts and he gasped for air, coughing and sucking in the humid atmosphere. 

A rustling in the nearby bushes peaked his attention as he turned and called out her name.  But it wasn’t the glistening friend playing in the field who made the racket.  Two hikers brushed past the trees and into Tom and Rain’s meadow.  One hiker allowed her backpack to slip to the ground as she knelt beside the boy in the wet grass.  She felt his forehead and turned to the other.

“He’s burning up.  I wonder if he’s lost, caught in the rain all night.”

“Rain,” Tom said to her with pleading eyes.  “Lindy, come back,” he whispered weakly.

“We need to get help,” the hiker’s companion told her as he wrapped a blanket around the shaking boy.

~

“We’re the parents of Thomas Mackey,” she told the woman at the nurse’s station.

The woman nodded and directed them to the glass-enclosed room.  They pushed through the curtain door and to their son’s side.  An IV tube snaked from a translucent bag above his head and down to the edge of the bed, disappearing into the flesh on his thin, pale hand.  Wires ran from his chest to a monitor where his nurse was standing and pushing buttons.

“Why are his arms restrained?” Tom’s mother asked as she started to release her son’s wrists.

“Ma’am, we have the restraints to keep him from pulling out his IVs,” the nurse reported.  “He was very upset when he came in this morning.”

The woman stopped releasing her son’s arms and gently rubbed his skin before fastening them again.  A tear rolled down her cheek as she looked at his face, so kind and naïve.  Then she bent over to kiss his forehead.

“Mr. and Mrs. Mackey,” a voice came from behind them.  A gentleman stood in the open doorway wearing a white coat and a stethoscope around his neck.  “I’m Dr. Stewart, I was here when your son was brought in.  May I speak with you for a minute?” The Mackey’s nodded and followed him to a small room nearby.

“Your son, Thomas…, he’s a very sick boy. Do you know what happened?” he asked with a serious look on his face.

The mother looked down at her hands as the father cleared his throat.

“Our son is autistic.  He went to a special school and met a close friend there.  Recently we talked about him moving to a group home, the same one his friend was also going to, but then she got sick and was in the hospital with a heart condition.  I found out yesterday the girl passed…, I don’t know what happened, he must have heard me on the phone and…,” he couldn’t talk any longer for the lump in his throat.

“How old is your son?”

“Nineteen,” his mother interrupted.  “He insists on telling people he’s nine, though.  It was his best year, it was when he met Lindy…,” she interjected and then grew quiet again.

“When the paramedics brought him in he was calling out for someone.  Does he have a friend named ‘Rain’,” the doctor asked.

“My son doesn’t have any other friends,” Mr. Mackey answered.  “He wasn’t very good with other kids.”

“Well, as I said, he’s very sick and will be here for a while.  While he heals you’ll have time to decide what your next step will be regarding Tom’s living arrangements.  You might want to keep him with you until he has time to heal, emotionally.  Do you have any questions for me?”

“I do,” Mrs. Mackey spoke up.  “Where was he…, when he was found?”

“The paramedics said he was picked up in a park about fifteen miles from the hospital.  I assume he wandered there and spent the night in the open and that’s why he’s so sick.”

~

Tom’s mother sat at his bedside.  She spent the days combing his hair and talking to him about what she thought and what his father was doing.  It was meaningless conversation for her.  It made her feel like she was helping her son.  But Tom didn’t notice her.  His eyes stared off in the distance, to a place that wasn’t painted on any of the walls in the small room.  Thinking was too painful.  The hole in his heart was too fresh and raw.

Tom’s lungs grew stronger, but his mind stayed vacant.  His mother leaned over to look into his eyes, to see if there was any sign of recognition from him.  He didn’t respond.  Soon she found herself pleading with him to talk, say anything to her. 

“Bandit is waiting for you at home.  Do you remember Bandit, Tom?” and she waited for him.  “You love your puppy, son,” she begged, “you two always played in the sprinkler in the yard, do you remember?” but he did not say a word or even acknowledge that she had spoken.

Eventually, the day had come that Tom could leave.  Mr. and Mrs. Mackey packed his medications in the car and drove away with gray clouds hanging low in the sky.  Still, he hadn’t spoken a word since the day he had arrived there.  The car pulled away from the front doors of the hospital and out into the street.

“Bandit will be so glad to see you,” his mother said, looking over her shoulder.  “You know, he’s really missed you since you’ve been gone.  He can’t wait to play with you.”  Her heart sank as she saw the pain in her son’s eyes.

Tom stared quietly out the window, watching houses and cars slip by in a blur.  Nothing stood out to him of interest.  Everything he saw was dull and lifeless.  Then a drop of rain hit the window beside him and he blinked hard and then stared at the clear stain it had made.  Another glistening speck fell on the glass and then another joined them.  Soon the window was glittering with liquid facets, contrasting the dreary scenery outside.

“Rain,” he whispered into the glass, causing a small fog to obliterate his view.

“Tom?  Did you say something?” his mother asked, watching her son in anticipation from the front seat.

“Rain!” he shouted happily and commenced to pounding the window with his fist.  “Stop, Dad, it’s Rain, it’s Rain!” he said and yanked on the doorknob.

Tom’s father was startled at his son’s reaction.  Unsure what to do, he turned at the next corner and pulled to the side of the road.  The boy rushed from the car and onto the front lawn of a small home.  There he saw her, bare toes caressing the grass and a glistening smile on her bright face.  She put her arms out to her side and turned in circles with her soaked hair flowing and fingers catching the sparkling drops.

“Tom, what is it?” his mother asked in a panic as she ran to her son.  “You’re going to get sick again, please come back to the car.”

Tom pushed past his mother and into the open yard where Rain danced and spun.  He reached out his hands and felt the cool touch of his friend.  Then he threw his head back and began to laugh.  With his arms stretched out to his sides he turned in circles, feeling Rain’s hair fall over his shoulders and brush across his hands and fingertips.  His mother and father watched him spinning by himself in the downpour, wondering why he was laughing.

“Tom?” his mother spoke gently to him.

The boy stopped turning and ran to her.  Throwing his arms around her waist like he hadn’t done in so many years; he cried as he held her and laughed at the same time.

“I love her, Momma.  I love Rain!” he said and tightened his grasp.

The woman smiled at her husband and caressed the boy’s soaked hair.  Her son had returned and she finally understood.

“Then she must come with us,” she said and waved her hand, beckoning to the precipitation to join them. 

She sat next to her son in the back seat of the car with the window slightly opened so that Tom could hold onto Rain as they drove the rest of the way home.  Tom giggled as her locks of hair tickled his hand in the wind.  His mother would explain to him later that his friend could visit often, now that she knew where he lived.

The Creature of My Reflection

One hears of how two mirrors set facing one into another can allow you to see into eternity.  As a young girl I discovered I can see much more than that.  It must sound like the ramblings of a mad person, yet I can’t deny what I saw.  And never will I forget.

It was in the winter of 1952.  Mother had just purchased a thick, green bow for my hair.  I had coveted that ribbon from my usual position in front of the Woolworth’s store window, on the corner of Fifth and Main.  When I unwrapped the thin tissue and found it there, I couldn’t wait to try it on.  I hurried to the bathroom and picked up the oval hand-mirror to exam the positioning and how the soft, satin strips lay against my long brown hair.  I tilted the mirror until it caught the afternoon light.  At that moment all I could think about was what was happening in my own little life.  I hadn’t considered that moments later my curiosity would shift dramatically for, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. 

I pulled the mirror down so I could see the entirety of the room.  At first I had considered my brothers were planning a nasty joke on me, a not so uncommon circumstance in our household, I might say.  Seeing neither of them in my proximity, I lifted the hand-mirror again.  It didn’t take long, though, before the miniscule movement attracted my attention once again.  Tilting my hand so that my reflection was not the center of my perspective, I glanced into the eternities.  Somewhere on the edge of my reality I saw a curled finger reach around a reflected image of the plastic handle.  It hesitantly touched the likeness of my thumb and then immediately pulled back to its hiding place.  It would have been less of an event if I hadn’t felt a tickle, as if it had reached into the room and touched me in person.

Having never experienced such a thing, I instantly squealed in fright.  Dashing from the bathroom, I dropped the mirror to the hallway rug and rushed into the living room where Mother waited.  I wanted to tell her what I saw, but knew better of it.  She would never have believed me and I wasn’t confident I could duplicate the experience to prove myself sane.  I resorted to telling her a spider had startled me and left it at that.  It was at that moment I became intrigued with the reflection of images and light, and the undiscovered wonders they might reveal.

Before long I spent more time in front of my vanity, replicating a perpetual image of the wooden and plastic frames surrounding my two mirrors.  For a great long time I was unable to see a thing other than my own multiplied reflection shifting in the background.  And then one day I saw something more.

Tiring of looking into the silvery abyss, I began fussing with my unruly hair.  It was then that -- somewhere between actuality and an unknown world – the hideous figure came into view.  It had startled me at once, yet I stood unmoving as I clung to the mirror in my hand.  The same thick, digit with calloused mounds and sharpened nail, curled around the distant frame.  Two more of similar shape and features joined in probing the smooth surface and then slid downward to the formed handle.  I held steady, my eyes fixed with fear, as it investigated the curve of my hand and the bulge of my knuckles. The creature’s flesh felt most similar to that of coarse sandpaper.  Its color was as sallow as ground corn.  I was nauseated and I was equally intrigued.  Had no others seen such a thing?

A moment later they retreated from sight and I was left staring in silent wonderment and confusion.  I could still sense the rough texture of its curious fingers groping the rise of my trembling hand.  However, I couldn’t discard the thrill arising in my soul.  Something had touched me from outside my comprehension and far beyond my spatial existence.

Several more failed attempts proceeded that day, until I was once again taken by surprise.  I had come to know that an initial preoccupation -- with something other than the creature in the alternate existence -- was necessary to coax him from his obscure hiding place.  I had taken to a daily brushing of my hair in front of the vanity, the oval mirror in hand.  My eyes were trained to anything out of the ordinary so as not to miss a golden opportunity. 

One day, as I stroked my thick locks with a portion of my attention to the reflection in the distance, three jaundiced prawns reached around the two-dimensional surface and released something small into the air.  Although my eyelids flittered, my arm didn’t flinch and I was left dumb-struck at the sight of it all.  A small creature, quite similar to a butterfly, swept past the boundaries of the mirror in my hand and into my room.  I dropped the mirror to my bed and proceeded toward an endeavor to capture the delicate being.  From the expense of great effort I was able trap it inside a clear vase.  Upon closer observation I was astonished at what I had seen.

Its wings formed an unusual, intricate pattern, much like the exquisite lace I had once seen in a department store.  Its size wasn’t greater than the diameter of a quarter and it appeared as though it was the color of deep violet.  Upon closer inspection, however, I discovered the colors dispersed into varying shades of crimson and indigo with hints of chartreuse near the shaft of its body.  After removing the scarf covering the mouth of the vase, I reached inside to remove the tiny creature, with intent to present it to my parents.  My curiosity, however, deemed counterproductive, as the moment I handled its wings it fell to a fine dust.  I remember crying out in my room, “no, no, no!” as its body withered away.

The remainder of the day I sat in my room, holding a silent vigil for the frail being.  For many days I didn’t feel worthy to pursue the creature of my reflection. 

Two weeks had passed before I summoned the courage to face him.  My mirrors set and my attention appropriately distracted, I waited for the atmospheric shift.  Several moments had elapsed when he finally came into view.  The usual three digits appeared, timidly, around the edge of the oval.  I waited with great anticipation as to what would occur next.  Would he toss me another fine gift that I would foolishly destroy with selfish intrepidity?  This time, however, no delicate creatures beautified my room or my mind.  In its stead the creature came, less daunted, outside his sheltered wall. 

A narrow, lengthened stem supported the fingers as they snaked from perpetuity.   The three extensions groped my hand, as in previous incidences, and then proceeded up the length of the reflection of my arm.  My flesh tingled at the harshness of its touch.  I looked down to see the compression of the creature’s fingers pressing on my skin.  With my free hand I reached over and felt the section of flesh being probed, causing the knobby digits in the mirror to immediately recoil.  The retraction, however, was temporary as only moments later, calcified claws were discovering the round of my shoulder.  I felt my heart skip a beat as I turned from my reflection.  And that was my greatest error.

Whatever had existed in the depths of eternity had suddenly found its way into my world.  Before I was aware, my body was thrown to the floor of my bedroom and a vile creature, unlike any I had seen in the fairytales of my youth, stood over me and shouted ferociously into my petrified countenance.  Horrified, I reached up to block the assault when my hand brushed the tight, yellow flesh of the beast from my reflection.  Within mere seconds his image fell to silt on the oak floor.  I quickly surveyed the room and found there were no other creatures lurking from the interior existence of the depths of my mirror.  The remnants of the beast were expeditiously extricated to the garbage receptacle in the garage.  I left my room with my heart pounding and slept on the davenport in the study. 

An extraordinary occurrence such as this would have a lasting effect on the conduct of the most ordinary of persons, of which I consider myself to this very day.   On all the days following that occasion I have found myself unable to gaze upon mirrors reflecting one into another.  I had already reached into the eternities and saw the reflection of a creature I no longer wish to see.