They gather out of nowhere, like a crowd that drifts towards where blood gets spilled. And the blood is spilled this day, right outside where I fell down, while playing with the neighbourhood guys. I cried many tears and made a puddle out of them on my palms.
I was rushed to the doctor. I do not remember much but for the agony, when he sprayed some liquid which coagulated my blood there and then, which still is circumventing through my mind. I have been acting like a lame person ever since returning back home.
And now they have gathered. I have loved them since as long as I can remember. Mum tells me that it had rained the morning I was born and my first cry was accompanied by the ringing of the temple bells and the morning hymns of the gurudwara, symphonising with the drip-drop of water pearls. So, it may very well be so that we are connected in some way.
“It is going to rain,” my sister says what everyone already knows. She rushes off to the terrace to gather the clothes, hanging to get dried in the sun, but the fate has it that it must rain today.
I cripple along her up the stairs and reach in time to have the first drops to fall down on my cheeks and stream down my throat to the chest. I feel light.
She gets angry and asks me to go back down but I am not the one to listen. I am here to pick at them and gather what I can, hiding them in every possible crevice of my body. I do not joke and thus, my intent is true.
She has gathered the clothes. They are now flung on her left arm and she hands over her right for me to take so that we can go back down. But I rather hold onto the door and crouch because I do not want to be taken away. I want to see my destiny in the few drops that have painted the dust riddled bricks below me. My blood had made stains just like that.
And then, the thunder crackles and the lightning zooms piercing the sky apart and showering blessed pearls. She exclaims in horror and takes me by force and yet, my arms try to reach out to them as she makes me walk down with her.
Stepping down the stairs, I lose my view of them at their gathering. I want to join them. My vision, thus screened, and I am thrust to darkness.
Now, I rise, feeling the trace of those drops on my cheeks that stream along, down my throat to my chest. I feel light.
I clutch at them dotted on my skin where the matchsticks have branded them. Feeling my ribs, I fall down on the bed, zooming through the many gatherings of visions or dreams. It doesn’t matter what they are because they are tangible to me.
A 500 word story for Oloriel’s Tale Weaver’s Prompt. It is a blend of reality and fiction… what is what… I don’t know and I won’t tell.
8 thoughts on “Gathering: A Short Story”
Phenomenal work I was completely mesmerized beautiful and frightening
I don’t care what part is fictional or not, I loved this anmol. I cringe at short stories usually, only because of time limitations to sit and read, but I was taken in from the beginning to the very end. Your words chosen, the gentleness and the imagery made for a wonderful story and a delight to read ~ thank you.
Wow, this is excellent. Stunning, in fact.
Great writing my friend!
Hugz & Love
Oh! I like this storry…very interesting indeed and your imagery is convincing. Good job.
wow…you get quite a bit of feeling out of those dots in the end there…i like the rather meandering of the story from the fall and hurting yourself to another fall there in the end into whatever is next…well done…i can see it….
Nice story! I don’t think it matters what is fiction and what is real… it all works well together.
This was a marvellous story, HA. The emotion, the words and the scenes that intertwine, the stories and snippets and the soulshards – all arranged to grasp.