It fell
It fell.
Fish.
Frog.
He watched.
The night bore no signs of end. He sensed that the thing would soon stop, as all things would - especially the abominations, God wouldn't allow it - but that was only the beginning. The night will continue on, like a loop in a film that had just made its first run into eternity. That night would take as long as it would until the thing would make any logical sense to him, even to the point of stopping time itself. He thought that would be something of a relief. He can crawl into a ball and hide under the bed forever, maybe then he could think of the next sentence for his failing work. And maybe, just maybe, he could finally kill himself with the dope his agent had gotten for him. And if all that wouldn't go well he could just walk out into the open sea and let the deep waters swallow him, perhaps that would be an eternity in itself. But as much as drowning appealed to his ailing mind, as much as he wanted that more than anything in the world, that would mean going out there - and he knew what was out there - the things. It would mean stepping on them, and the thought of the things moving under his soles made him squirm. It would also mean that he would have to look at the things up close. He wouldn't want that, no. The sea, which was only twenty yards away from the beach house, seemed too faraway. Walking out? No, not with the things out there.
Instead, he decided to sit back and watch. The night bore no signs of reason.
It fell.
Fish.
Frog.
It had not rained in two months. The sea-side town, where coconuts plushed on fertile land, was stricken with a bad case of drought, as were other nearby towns. Along these days a fruit-mix stand appeared in front of Missus Koring's house, fronted by her little boy Tommy and a box for where to put the coins. A group of youngsters would go swimming on afternoons on Co's beach, and litters of beer bottles would be left rolling down before the day is over.
Up on the hill beyond the embankment, the old lady that lived on the beat-up nipa house would set up a fire offering and toss a handful of herbs every first day of the week. She was praying for rain, but the local children thought it was dark magic. Behind the abandoned warehouse, a meeting ensued and sometime after the local children, led by Melon, concluded on a plausible story that there was a witch living up on the hill beyond the embankment. It had not rained in two months, as you see, and when the first signs of thunderclouds appeared over the horizon, there was a talk among the adults that the old lady's remedy actually worked. Nevertheless, the locality braced on the eventuality of rain in the coming days.
The rain came later that night.
One Pasco Roberto sipped a cup of seasoned coconut wine and looked out the window. He had a frown going on, a look telling us he didn't like his drink but couldn't afford anything better. That kind of look. Later on he would convince his wife that it wasn't the old lady's remedy that worked out some rain. It's a tropical cycle. Rainy season. He would say, his tone convincingly scientific. And his wife, Betsy, would only nod in agreement. She knew better than to cross him, after all, wasn't Pasco himself a thundercloud waiting to burst? Betsy thought so.
Later on that afternoon Pasco himself, red-faced and half-groggy from his drink would go up the roof and hammer some quick patching of planks and nails just to be safe, just to keep his mind at ease. It was after a good look down at the beach when he changed his mind about the old lady's remedy not working out some rain. He almost convinced himself it was dark magic, and that it would swallow the seaside town and spit it out clean on the other side. He looked, hypnotized by the waves that came crashing down the shore, feeling a cool breeze swirl on the back of his neck. There was that feeling. A feeling that something was coming. Something. The thundercloud looked black across the sky behind it, which was a clear blue sheet. The water below it dansed a black ballet.
He listened to the radio a little earlier before coming out. There was some talk about a dengue outbreak somewhere in the mountain outskirts. Why no news on this one? The size of the thing could may as well cover the entire town. But maybe later, of course. The big news comes on later. Then that feeling took over him. It slithered down his spine and made his sweat cold. Something is coming, Paspas. He may have heard his now dead mother whisper, but it was only the whistling wind, of course. The wind that was now picking up, getting stronger. He wiped the sweat on his forehead and that made him decide to plank the roof.
And of course, the rain came later that night.
It fell.
Fish.
Frog.
The old lady living on the hill covered up the hole that she dug and went inside the house. She quietly poured chicken broth on a bowl and tasted it, looking out the window. After further garnishing and oils, she took the bowl outside and left it under a concaving hole on the talisay tree. She clapped her hands and looked up. Not distant, she could feel the cold air from the sea mixing with the warmth of the land. The scent of rain caught her nose, and behind it was the smell of something else.
Five minutes later the sun began to set.
It fell.
Fish.
Frog.
Jessica Menguito stared at her naked body on the mirror. She knew for a fact that she hadn't the perfect body. She was fit, she knew that. But she thought her thighs were a little bit chubby, and the way her shoulder slumped made an awkward curve on her back. Very unlady-like. It was, in a way, silly. She knew people were not going to notice anyway, nor would they care. But she had met him. That guy from Manila. That guy renting the house beside the beach. And she wanted to impress him.
With only socks on, she finished reading the manual for the stationary biking machine. Having acquired it from a friend at a cheaper prize, she had a big grin going on. After slipping inside a bulky sweater, she leaped on the machine and started pedaling, feeling her legs warm up. It felt good. Her earphones boomed 90's rock music.
When it fell, there wasn't a thing she could hear but grunge.
It fell.
Fish.
Frog.
The old man living on the flat had tea that night. News had already broadcast a coming rain along the coast, and the old man peered outside his window like a rat in a hole. Somehow he looked twenty years young, the singular lamp on the coffee table had seen to it. He took a sip from his tea and watched the horizon. It wasn't hard to see the way the thundercloud had loomed over the reach. To him it looked like a floating mountain of snow; snow that reminded him of Europe, the good old days. The sky around it was incredibly clear, stars blinked unwavered, like somehow it remained uncovinced of a coming rain.
The old man laid on his bed and stayed awake moments longer. The unmindful ceiling made him thought of Megan. He wished she was there. He wished of smelling the flowery scent of her hair, and the soft touches of her hands. But she was gone. The last thing he remembered was looking out the bedroom window, and realizing he had forgotten to close it. The curtain waved and danced with the wind. He wanted to get up and close it, but he was too tired and his legs gave him hell. Earlier that day he had taken the effort and walked two miles, doubling his usual routine. He was getting restless the past few weeks, he considered maybe he was dying. He closed his eyes and murmured something to Megan. Perhaps about how much he loved her and how he hadn't opened her six-year old letter because he was too afraid of what it had to say. His vision blurred and flipped, and he drifted off to sleep.
When the rain fell, he never knew.
It fell.
Fish.
Frog.
She was just done with her seventh painting when she felt a cold breeze enter the room. It felt contained, and as cold as ice. Cara turned around and saw a cat zip across the window ledge. She smiled, her lip pink and gloss. Cats were cute as hell, she thought. If only her cat hadn't ran away years ago. She dipped the cloth on the waterbucket and soaked the upper part of the canvas. Blue paint began to drip across it, and in a way it looked like rain. It looked good. She was contented. She looked at her feet that was masked in paint; paint that always seem to manage to slip into the crevices of her toenails. It was always a problem for her, but she had been painting with her feet since she was six. She had no arms.
That night she slept and dreamed of her painting. A lighthouse stood overlooking a sea, and the sun dipping on an orange horizon. And then it began to rain, like how she dabbed the water effect on a clear blue sky. But it was unsettling.
It was raining in blood.
For a time she slipped out from deep sleep and heard the secret rustle of leaves outside. Traces of her dream began to fade fragment by fragment, and she settled back to sleep again, ignoring the cold drops of sweat welling on her back and forehead.
Outside, it fell like the how she dabbed the wet cloth on her painting.
It fell.
Fish.
Frog.
Little Tommy lost his marbles that night. His actual marbles. When his mother called for dinner, he had left them outside and a night sweeper, troubled by the thought of marbles lying around on the side of the street and the possibility of vehicles slipping over it, took the chance and trashed it away. Tommy had forgotten all about it until the next morning.
Just moments before the rain came, Tommy had lain awake on his bed. His night light looked convincingly safe, and his bed sheets warm like summer days when he would go play with Melon and Josh. Previously, his mother had come to his room and gave him a goodnight kiss. There was only him, his mom and his dad. His younger brother had died two years ago.
Tommy fell asleep. But before he did, he heard a faint thud on the roof, and another one. He rolled to his side and buried his head on a pillow. It must have been the rats, or a bird. He fell asleep thinking about how big rats could grow.
He never heard the rain at all.
It fell.
Fish.
Frog.
