It Always Rains by Tim Wilkinson

The small room lay quiet, cloaked in shadow and smoky haze, silent save two voices and the occasional, solid clank of steel against steel, echoing down the long, stone hewn halls.

“Do you remember the last time you were with her, asked the darkly cloaked man?”
“Yes, yes of course I remember,” Answered Wayne.
“Tell me about it.”
“Ok, I’ll try. Well it was raining that day. I remember that.”
“Raining? I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, why? No, you don’t understand. It was one of those luscious summer rains, gloriously warm and delightful, the water falling in thick, driving sheets, pooling and collecting in large puddles and swiftly forming rivers, rushing through the streets and topping the curbs. The breeze blew light and soothing. The sky hung low and grey, yet light, not dark or threatening, with no lightening, no thunder, the temperature perfect, the water like a  tepid shower, refreshing yet not cold, falling on our heads in soft, soothing sheets, clear, clean and fresh. I felt like a boy once more. It was beautiful, wonderful and sweet.”

“What did you do?”

“We ran and played, splashing and laughing through the streets in the ankle deep water. Mauri would sit in the large pools that grew at the edges of the intersections, where the water was the deepest, almost deep enough to swim in, her little umbrella held over her head, calling my name. It was truly one of the best times we ever had. She was so happy. So was I. It was a great day, truly a great day.”

“What happened then? I mean, after that day.”
“After? Well that’s when, she came, the very next day.”
“Yes, she.”
“Can you not speak her name?”
“Sure, of course I can. I choose not to.”
“Ok then. Who was, she?”
“Who, blackness and anger, malice, deceit and ploy.
“Was she beautiful?”
“You loved her?”
“More than my life.”
“Her you?”
“Not for one second.”
“That explains many things, doesn’t it?”
“Yes…I suppose it does.”
“And then?”
“And then, well you know…her legacy, darkness, depression, drugs, booze and sex.”
“You mean, after she…was gone?”
“Of course.”
“Do you blame her for that, the darkness I mean, and for, Mauri?”
She poured, I drank.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I water my dog by filling his bowl.”
“It’s the dog that drinks.”
“Ah…ok. I see now. Wasn’t there someone to turn to, talk with, you know, family, friends…parents?”
“Yes, there was no one.
“Sorry…yes, there was, or yes, there wasn’t”
“Yes, we have no bananas.”
“You mean, no.”
“What do you think?”
“Ok. Again, I’m sorry. That wasn’t easy then, was it?”
“Do you miss, her?”
“Every day.”
“Still love her?”
“Do you?” he repeated “Never mind. Did you ever want, you know, to die?’
“Only sometimes?”
“Most times.”
“Did you try to, you know…”
“I didn’t try not to, if that’s what you mean. There are many ways to kill oneself, don’t you think? And they are not all, quick, easy or clean.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s right. And now, do you still want to die?”


“Are you unsure about that, or just…?”

Interrupting, Wayne answered slowly, looking down. “I stopped caring about that long ago.”
“I see. And what of Mauri?”
“Like I said, that was our last, real time together, the day before, she came.”
“Really? That was over twenty years ago. Surely you have seen her since.”
“Yes, of course, there were times…yet it was never the same. The darkness, I was so covered in the darkness. And Mauri, well you can’t go back you know.”
“Yes, but…Didn’t she understand?”
“Understand? No, how could she, she was only a child.”
“I mean after, when she grew up.”
“Too late…cold and distant.”
“Do you miss her; love her, Mauri I mean?”
“Won’t she forgive you?”
“Have you talked with her? or heard from her? Does she know?”
“She knows all she needs, or wants to know.”
“Are you sure about that?”


“I see. Well, it’s time. Are you ready?”
“Yes, I think so. I think I’ve always been ready.”
“Come on then.”

The two men stood and turned towards the door while a third led the way. As he passed the cells lining both sides of the poorly lit walkway, Wayne turned, studying each face as he passed. Most simply smiled or turned away, a few jeered loudly, shouting crude obscenities, two spat on the floor before him, one bowed his head and cried.

“I think it’s going to rain,” said Wayne.
“Really? How do you know?”
“It always rains, before.”


  About the author:

Tim Wilkinson, father, husband, and wayward son, began writing at an early age. Primarily a writer of flash fiction, short story and novella length works, he also regularly dabbles in the art of poetry. A lifelong resident of Oklahoma, his work reflects the abject lack of hope, faith and honor, so prevalent in today’s society. Recently Published in, “The Path Literary Journal,” Winter 2013 edition, Ancient Paths, Fictitious Magazine, The Global Twitter Community Poetry Project, The Garden Gnome and the Rain, Party & Disaster Society,” His other works can be explored on his blogs at:


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