I remember rain. Sheets of water running down the slanted street to pool by our garden wall. Fine droplets suspended in the air like a bated breath, waiting to condense enough to fall.
I was ten years old when we left Verdure, and my father had just been killed.
The absence of moisture made little impression on me at first. It was subtle, meat without salt, and I reveled in the warm winds and the clarity of the sky. I even loved the whirling dust and the implausible strata of colored sands. Eventually, though, the grit and palette of the desert began to wear me down. I longed for the taste of brine and the cool greens and blues of home.
My mother hated this place from the moment we arrived. She wilted under the hot sun, her vibrancy fading with each year. Once, wild to understand her, I asked why she chose this world over the endless possibilities.
She shrugged. “It’s the furthest from him I could get.”
Standing at the porthole, looking down on the dusty sea, I could almost understand my mother’s compulsion to replace her scars with open wounds. A bell clanged, and the deck shuddered: the Jade Dragon’s gangway, sliding back into the hull. I contemplated joining the other passengers in the lounge to watch her lift away from the platform, but my eyes were sore. Instead, I gestured to the steward and he opened the door to my stateroom.
The room was not large, but it would be comfortable enough for ten days. Jax slid from my shoulder and scampered around, exploring nooks and crannies like a child let loose in the Singing Canyons. The curtains were imported silk, if a little sun-bleached – a testament to the dirigible’s former glory. Under the window was a table, where a brass rose glittered in a porcelain vase.
“A lovely touch.” I smiled at the steward, who looked at me blankly. Roses, I remembered, were as rare as rain here.
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This post is part of the Jade Dragon series. It follows The Jade Dragon, and was written in response to the Trifecta Writing Challenge prompt:
You should write a creative response using the given word. You must use the word in your response, and you must use it correctly. Your response can be no fewer than 33 and no more than 333 words. This week’s word is:
1: the state of being absent
2: the period of time that one is absent
3: want, lack <an absence of detail>
17 thoughts on “The Rarity of Rain”
Love the rain. Love your story
I’m not sure what I just read, but it was absolutely first-class writing!
This is a lovely response. The wistful, musing tone resonates and you have some wonderful imagery going on.
Thanks for playing along with us. We hope to see you back tomorrow for the new challenge.
Really tight. Nice.
Very nice.. I enjoyed this.
Great images here, and I’m dying to know where she’s going!
Very descriptive writing. I enjoyed it.
great piece – so much wistful emotion in it. I love the imagery of the desert’s grit wearing her down, and the description of it being a dry ocean, like, but unlike the briney version she grew up with.
I’m happy your doing this as a continuing story. As with the first piece, your wonderfully descriptive words make a fantasy seem like a very realistic story. And you bring the reader into the scene. This is great!
The biggest challenge was that I also wanted to make it something that made sense without having read the first piece. Serial writing is hard! 🙂 Thank you for stopping by, and for your compliments!
enjoyed your piece. the writing draws the reader in and makes you want more
Great response! Your descriptions were vivid and beautiful. I especially liked the phrase “replace her scars with open wounds”.
A brass rose…roses as rare as rain, excellent transition image. This is a really intriguing establishing world. Not just lyrical wording, which has always been a strength of yours, but that encapsulated single line of mood, “It was the furthest from him I could get.” Deep tones.
Wow, thank you! I am trying to be a little more thoughtful about creating a believable, yet fantastical, place. We’ll see how it goes.
I enjoyed reading this.