A new Francis Rosenfeld story will appear on her website francisrosenfeld.com for 24 hours only. No announcements. No archive. No reruns.
Arrives at midnight.
Nothing goes and nothing comes of nothing
there is essence in the word of truth
we are small and meek into the vastness
of the worlds beyond the sights of youth.
As if waiting for a sign, the clouds gathered over the horizon. Jal looked at them, and in his relief allowed a tear to flow. Deafening thunder shook the heavens, echoing between the stone walls before it retreated in a low rumble. Another tear flowed down Jal’s cheek. That’s when the rain started.
Softness brushes the glass pane, steadily patting at the window with delicate plush soles, the kind that make intricate embroidery patterns on freshly fallen snow, but no sounds, no sounds at all, ever.
As if waiting for a sign, the clouds gathered over the horizon. Jal looked at them and allowed a second tear to fall. Deafening thunder shook the heavens, echoing between the old stone walls before it retreated in a low rumble. Another tear flowed down Jal’s cheek. That’s when the rain started.