A Rain of Frogs

One day, God was sitting on a park bench with his head in his hands. A little girl, who had been playing on the slide in the park ran over and sat beside him.

“Why you looking so glum, chum?” she asked him. Her feet, clad in the latest fashion forward footwear, were covered with sand and swung freely back and forth in anticipation of his answer.

God looked up at the little girl and smiled at her. His eyes looked tired, but they were bright and blue and sparkling. He looked exactly as she thought he should, though perhaps a little shorter in person. She also didn’t think he’d smell like her great-grandmother, but maybe that’s just something that comes with age. Besides, he was God, and he could smell any way he wanted. If she were God, she might have chosen lavender or cinnamon instead of old people smell, but that was his choice.

“Glum, Emma? Do I look glum, like a sad old man?” he asked in return.

She nodded, suddenly shy. She was talking to God, after all. Not even her mom, who was the high-powered CEO of a major multinational bank got to do that. She reached over tentatively and took his hand. Yes, he looked like he could use a good hand-holding.

“Well, I was just thinking how sad the world can be sometimes.” he answered. After a pause, he sighed a deep, weary sigh. “It just seems no matter how hard I try, the world ends up being full of more sadness than it should.”

She nodded sagely. “Like when your ice cream melts and falls off the cone before you can eat it all?” she asked.

“Yes Emma, something like that.” he said.

Emma swung her feet a bit, and thought about this.

“But. But you’re God. You can make it any way you want.” she offered.

This actually made him chuckle. From the mouths of babes.

“Yes Emma, I can make it any way I want. And I think that’s maybe why I’m a little bit sad.”

The girl was clearly puzzled. With a flourish, she pulled some chewing gum from her pocked and offered it to him. He took a stick and popped it into his mouth.

“My mom said not to chew gum, that it made me look like trailer trash and would rot my teeth, but I like the taste.” she said.

“Your mom is pretty clever, isn’t she Emma.” he replied.

A silence fell between them as they enjoyed Emma’s forbidden spearmint.

“So, why don’t you just make everyone happy then?” she asked.

God thought about this for a long time and chewed thoughtfully.

“Well, I could do that. But that’s not the point. The problem is that because I made it this way, I’m ultimately responsible for everyone’s sadness. Do you understand that?” he asked her.

Again, she seemed puzzled, and shook her head.

“Okay Emma, think of it this way. Because I can do anything, make it anyway I want, I’m responsible for the way everything is, right?”

She giggled and kicked her feet.

“That’s silly.” she answered.

Now it was God’s turn to be puzzled.

“Why is that silly, Emma?”

“Because. You gave everyone free… free… that thing. That thing so that they can all make choices.” she said excitedly.

“Free will, Emma? How does that matter?” he asked.

“Yeah, that. Well, you can do anything, so sure, you’re responsible for everything you do. But if they choose to do it, it’s their problem. It’s like my mom says. If I don’t clean my room and I get grounded ‘cos its messy, that’s really my fault, on account of me knowing I’m going to get grounded for not cleaning my room and choosing to watch Kim Possible or something instead.”

She paused for breath and plunged on.

“So, if people are unhappy, it’s because they’re choosing to be unhappy. It’s that free willy thing you said. People have to choose to be happy, and if they don’t and they’re sad, it’s they’re own fault.”

God smiled and chewed in silence for a few moments.

“You’re a smart girl, Emma.”

And with that he stood up. It was time to get back to the great works. He gave her a hug and patted her on the head.

“Go play now. Your mom would be upset that you were talking to strangers.” he said to her.

“Be happy!” she yelled back at him over her shoulder as she ran back to the slide. When she turned to look from the top, he was gone.

Vacation complete. Mission? Not sure. We’ll see how long it takes for my stress to elevate to dangerous levels.

If you can believe it, there was a thunderstorm warning EVERY SINGLE DAY of the nine days I was off. Now, I know my boat is capable of dealing with a thunderstorm. People have sailed boats like mine around the world. The problem is more that the captain is a bit of a wimp, and doesn’t like sailing in heavy seas.

Nonetheless, Toronto Island Marina was a fantastic destination. Where else can you be 15 minutes from the downtown core of a major city, but not be exposed to all the problems associated with being in the downtown core of a city. No traffic (no cars!), no noise, no poor air quality. No major light pollution, no congestion. I could, and will, go there again.

I am relaxed and light as a fluffy cloud. Except not fluffy. Nor flying. Nor part of a thunderstorm warning. I did a lot of thinking, during some hours on the wheel. I did mention the failure of my autopilot, right?

I used my week well, otherwise. Read a LOT of books, mostly of the boring, industry kind. One notable exception was my first Hemingway. I read Old Man and the Sea, which took a couple hours.

It was a joyous read, quite a good story, but I found myself wondering about Hemingway. Specifically why he’s considered such a literary light. Oh, I enjoyed it, and the story was wonderful, but Hemingway is considered iconic in the literary world, and Old Man and the Sea is a seminal work. The story didn’t live up to the legend, at least for me.

Perhaps Hemingway’s legend is was built more for the man’s notable anti-American beliefs, or his peculiar personality and looks.

And perhaps I’m just a jaded Gen-Xer.

A nibble of darkness appears at the edge of the sunshine of my mind. Soon, as if in a Stones tune, I’ll have to turn my head until my darkness goes.

The increased depth from which the groundwater of my writing is welling has conspired with a particularly intense six-month period with work and some spectacularly hot summer weather to leave me as spent as a dollar at the CNE. These are convenient excuses, anyway.

In short, I’m taking a break. A total eclipse of the mind, to bastardize a different lyric.

I’m going sailing. I’ve not had an entire week off since my appendix burst two and a half years ago, and that doesn’t count. It’s time, before its too late. I’ll be back, hopefully recharged and ready to go.

In the meantime, feel free to peruse the archives. For the more lazy and disinterested (and the search-bots) here’s a list of classic downpours (in no particular order, really):

• The butterfly and the lamp
• The Edge of Greatness
• Bent
• Queerer and Queerer
• The big black smear

If you’ve read all that, and want to check something else out, check out the blogs linked to in the left column. Some of them are excellent, others merely amazing.

I am running. I look behind me, and I can’t see him, but I know He’s there. He’s always there. Around a corner, behind a door. He’s always there, relentless as the sands of time.

I am running up the stairs of the tower. Around and around they spiral, up to the clouds. I keep looking behind me, to see how close the pursuer is. As I crest the top of the stair and run onto the platform at the top, I see Him out of the corner of my eye, several flights of steps below me.

—

I watched you run up the stairs, around and around the tower. Below you, He continued His deliberate chase. He never seemed to rush, insofar as anyone would be able to know anything about him.

I saw you turn, just as you reached the platform. I saw the recognition of the inevitable in your eyes. I saw the fear. I wanted to help you but there is no Helping you.

—

I see the girls. They are always there somehow, pretty, lovely Tweedle-Dees, identical but different. I can never remember if it’s the blonde one with the blue eyes or the dark-haired one with the green eyes that serves him in this world? Or which world this is, for that matter.

There are doors, they hang on nothingness, as if the firmament they are bolted too has been nullified, leaving the hinges solid and strong and attached to nothing. I know if I were to run behind them, the doors would vanish.

The blonde one points to the door on the left, the green-eyed one to the door on the right. I have to think. I turn, I see him, pushing through the crowd. They seem oblivious to him, almost like they don’t want to see him, and so filter him out.

Too many questions. Left or right? Which world am I in? Light or shadow? How close is He?

—

You have always stumbled when the girls present you with this choice. You always get caught up, somehow, fail to be able to tell which is which. It’s almost like you can’t remember where you are, sometimes. Or who they are. Like you weren’t really in your own body.

He continued to close on you as you stood frozen by indecision, distracted or overwhelmed by choice. He floated through the crowd, a spectre they couldn’t see but only feel. They melted away from His touch, avoided being caught in His shadow. He frightened me badly, this antlered, cloaked ghost, this Grey Death.

Which door, left or right? Light or shadow? Stand or flee? Your plight broke my heart, broke my mind. How could I help you when I didn’t even understand what I was seeing?

—

Suddenly I remember. Light. This is Light. The blonde one had whispered it to me last time as she left me. I turn to see where He is. Closer still, His antlers marking him in a crowd that is parting like Moses’ red sea to make way for him. There is nothing between him and I now except emptiness.

He is going to catch me.

Light. I look back at the girls, identical and different, and grab the green eyed one by the wrist. I beg her to open the door, to let me pass. She pushes it back on its hinges, the Heavy wooden surface melting into the darkness behind.

I feel His breath on my neck as I pull Her through the door, I feel the icy cold of His shadow on my back. If I turned, I’d see the empty hood that hides his face, the antlers that sprout from his head.

I hear the scream that freezes my blood and seals His victory. Then we are through, and I hear the heavy, world-shaking thud of the door as it closes.

—

It was as if suddenly you were real again, like you had come back. The blank look on your face gave way to understanding. You turned, I could see the fear on your face as you marked His position. The crowd parted in front of him, clearing the path for His victory.

You grabbed the brown-haired one’s wrist, said something to her. She nodded, and moved toward the door she had been pointing at. A strange door, hinged on nothingness. She pushed at it and it swung backward. I couldn’t see what was beyond it.

He had closed on you. I could hear his victory call, a screeching, piercing scream that resonated through my whole body. He had you.

And then suddenly you and the girl were through the door, and it slammed shut with an earth-shattering bang.

—

And then I wake up.

—

And then I woke up.

My room was very bright, brighter than normal. I sat up and stared out the window at the huge full moon slung low in the sky. It looked stained, as if by tea, or rust. It was ominous and compelling.

The nightmare had been powerful, and shaken me badly. At first I did as I always did when my mind troubled my sleep – I stared at the ceiling and waited for my heart to calm itself.

Eventually it became clear that sleep wasn’t going to be a reality, so I quietly slipped out of bed, down the stairs, and out the front door. It wasn’t difficult – my father and his obsessive east-European need for bomb-proof structures had left our house squeak free. I sat on the front step and put my shoes on. It was late May and it was warm.

I trudged along the country road toward the Silo.

The ladder was slick with dew, so I took my time climbing it. I had been cast free for a few weeks and I didn’t want to return to that particular hell. Hand over careful hand, I made my way to the top. Once there I felt the familiar release of tension I always did when I was in the Silo. It was like coming home is supposed to feel.

I sat down in my chair, and stared through the hole in the roof. It framed the tarnished moon perfectly, and spilled a wedge-shaped river of light across the pine floor and around me. I felt like I was sitting on a moonbeam.

I picked up my sketchbook and thumbed through it. Sketches, both my own and Amy’s, flicked past my eyes one at a time as I turned the pages of the cheap book. One drawing – by Amy – made my blood freeze. I felt my chest clench, my whole body tense up, and I threw the sketchbook on the floor.

“I can’t sleep,” a voice behind me. Amy’s voice.

I screamed. I leapt from my chair and spun to face her.

Her eyes were wide. She looked terrified. The long white nightgown made her look like a ghost in the pale moonlight.

“Sorry,” she said, with no hint of a smile on her face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I stood there a moment, regaining control of myself. I had been scared deeply by the image in the sketchbook, and again by her voice. I opened my mouth to speak, but too many ideas crippled my tongue, and nothing was said.

“You okay?” she asked. She still looked frightened, but concern was edging the fear off her face.

I nodded. I leaned down and picked up the sketchbook, still open to the page that had startled me, and handed it to her. She shuddered with revulsion and pushed it away.

“Yeah. I drew it after I had a nightmare about that. About you. And Him. Chasing you.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

I felt the blood drain from my face. The world was spinning around me, and I sat down hard on the moonlit pine planks. Amy’s face again registered concern, and she knelt down beside me.

“What’s wrong? What did I say?” she asked.

I looked up into her eyes , into her deep, endless, eternal eyes.

“I had that nightmare tonight.”