Rules are simple: Write a scene involving rain in about 500 words, and post it. Link your blog to that of Christine H., and then go on a merry round of reading the posted entries, and commenting on them!
Here’s my entry, written quite some time back, and though rain comes absolutely in the end, I hope it connects with the character, and with you.
Martha has no idea when the light blue sky turned a threatening, sombre grey-black.
“It is as if someone has gone and smeared a lot of chimney-soot on its face,” she says to no one in particular”, her hand automatically reaching up to touch her own face, mouth.
Laying there on the grass with the sooty sky bearing down on her, she thinks of her husband Robert’s arms as he had held her last summer in this very meadow, how they’d made love, laughed, fed each other from the small basket she’d brought along, the mingling smells of a thousand honeysuckles around them.
A movement catches her eye. A foal at the water’s edge, drinking from the small brook all by itself. She wonders where its mother is. She decides it is probably time she returned home, to the empty house Robert has left her in to follow that harlot he’d met at the fair. The doctor’s daughter, fair-haired, light-skinned, tall, and slim; everything Martha is not.
Martha has become Poor Martha, Poor dear Martha. Martha, the wronged, abandoned wife. Every eye in the village has touched her with silent but heavy sympathy as she’s trudged her fat belly on swollen legs to and from the market, to fetch milk, to order new clothes when the old ones did not fit any more.
“Anything, dear God, but pity. Anything, but another Poor dear,” says Martha, her jaw clenched, “I have put a stop to all that today.”
She gets up, brushes off the grass from her dress. As she walks over to the brook, the foal skitters away, neighing.
She takes one last look at the bundle under the stone. A big, fat raindrop, the first all summer, falls on her arm just then but she takes no notice.
“ They will find it soon enough,” she says to herself, as she looks at the cloth flowing out from under the smooth stone she’s chosen. “Mrs. Brown will recognize the mittens and the cap for Martha’s poor baby. Mrs. Kilshaw would see the old baby quilt she had handed down for the poor fatherless child. What a waste, really.” Martha quirks up her nose. Is there a smell already?
“But the proud father is returning today and the house would be empty no more, “ she continues talking to herself as she starts walking, “He will ask for his son, I’m sure, before he says sorry. Better walk down to the village then, it is almost time he is here. I can always send someone back to fetch his darling blue-white son from the brook.”
The storm gathers and begins to blow in earnest, the rain soaking Martha so she looks as if she had never been dry. On her hair and clothes and skin the rain flows in rivulets, making it seem like she is crying from all parts of her body except her eyes. She hums under her breath, and walks like a woman on a stroll in the meadows, taking in the smells of the departing summer.