In other news: Apparenly he "" key on my keyboard has gone on srike, so if his senence doesn' make sense, ha's why.
It's been raining at my house for about a month now, and mind, I live in a desert. Literally. There hasn't been this much rain for about 20 years, and the flooding is going to be very bad when it happens. I live quite near to the river, which is already flooding, and no one has flood insurance. My grandparents live right smack-dab on the banks (why builders decided to put houses there we'll never know), and they don't have flood insurance, either (not that they could afford it anyways...) The whole valley is holding its breath until the snow on the mountains melts.
Today's prose piece was inspired by this unfortunate set of circumstances. For a long time I've wanted to write something similar to The Sea of Ashes, as it's a style of writing I really enjoy. Be warned, it's pretty rough, and I'm probably not done with it yet. Hence, constructive criticism in the form of "Hey moron! You spelled 'the' wrong!" would be appreciated. c:
Urban Oceans
When will the rain stop? The last human words I heard before the winds broke in were “Severe Storm Warning,” broadcast in an imperfect loop on the radio. But ever since the power cut out, I’ve only heard the clouds calling out to one another.
It’s been months since I’ve seen the sun. The sky is always as grey as the thirsty concrete which drinks up all this “heavenly” precipitation. The ground remembers growing green before, having trees and flowers burst from beneath it, until it was suffocated under streets and sidewalks. Now as the rains pour, it calls on these memories to break free of its concreteskin prison.
They’ve told me to stay dry in my half-rotted-roof house, while the rains keep coming and keep coming and keep pouring. Through the holes in the ceiling, on the street, incessant; I think it shall rain forever, and I will just have to wait as my basement floods and gets my feet wet.
I’ve seen people floating past on cobbled-together boat houses, like war-torn refugees escaping on the Atlantic. A part of me wants to join them, to ford the river on my bedroom door, but I’ve been told to stay here and let the Chinese-water-torture-rain drip on my head and make me forget. I dare not disobey.
Or perhaps I will dive in head-first, because waiting for these urban oceans to quit creeping in on me seems so pointless.
3 Poetry Snaps:
"concreteskin prison" - I like this wording.
The line "keep coming and keep coming and keep pouring" is a bit unwieldy.
"just have to wait as my basement floods and gets my feet wet" - this line's got quite some character. :) As in, it's the Flood pt. 2 and the narrator is concerned about getting her feet wet.
The transition between the last two paragraphs could be smoother.
"urban oceans" - I like this phrasing a lot. It may have more impact if put closer to the end of the sentence.
Hope any of that helps. :)
I know how you feel. I live in the Caribbean and we have 2 seasons; rainy and dry. Every year, from June to November, there is a threat from flooding caused by hurricanes. Last year was really bad with the passage of Hurricane Tomas. I understand and sympathize.
"Clouds calling out to one another" has a nice ring to it. Rain can be good, too much rain... not so much. It can be really annoying when it begins flooding, too. Everything becomes a mess, from the roofing, to the ground below, and a whole lot of mud and water suddenly apprear. It's no fun at all when that happens!
-Adam Waterford
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