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Writing Experiment Day #2

Writing Experiment Day #2: gripraincarnal

See rules and word list at this post. If you want to play along, comment with a link to yours below (please don’t paste the entirety of yours; links only).


I watched from inside the church, safe from the rain. I was lucky, as were the three others huddled inside, waiting for the sudden downpour to stop. I almost didn’t make it inside.

The kindly priest was not so lucky. He knelt, the rain assaulting him, unable to move, unable to do anything but feel.

I knew what this rain was. When it started, I kept the others from running out into it with his pistol and his cold, dead eyes. One shot into the rafters was enough to keep the mother, teenaged son, and groundkeeper in place.

The priest moaned outside. The mother begged me to let them go, to help him, the sorts of things I’ve heard again and again. But they didn’t know what I did. This wasn’t ordinary rain.

Ordinary rain doesn’t pin a man down like that. This wasn’t hard rain, rain with strong winds. This was just a little bit of wet, a little more than drizzle. Yet, the poor bastard outside is pinned down. Normal people don’t process incongruous things like that; they focus on the one thing they can see and tackle that. Normal people are blind to the otherworldly.

It’s my job to keep it that way. So I distract them, a big man with a gun.

The priest moaned again, but these aren’t moans of pain. They’re the sort of moans I’ve made after ordering up a couple Taiwanese whores with a side of X, coke, whatever I was in the mood for that night.

He’d be dead in a couple minutes. Once the rain takes what it wants from you, it leaves you an empty shell, incapable of feeling anything, even your own heartbeat. You just lay there, dying–quick but not quick enough. I wanted to shoot him in the head to put him out, but I couldn’t risk opening the window to do that.

It won’t takes one drop.

Another moan. From behind. The woman. I turned around, and saw the small leak in the roof above. The rain had caught another in its grip, which means it won’t just go away once the priest is dead.

I knew Father William. He was a good man; flawed, but good. I hated watching him die, but it was too late by the time it started. But this woman in fromt of me, I don’t know her. But damned if I’m going to have a son watch his mother die from a sorcerous ritual meant to kill me.

I didn’t have long to work the mojo. I flicked open the knife and stabbed my femoral artery through my jeans. This ritual’s going to take a lot of my blood, and I’ve no time to make this clean…


I knew in the middle of writing this that this was crap, more or less. There might be a good idea, but I’m not happy with my writing. Still, that’s what it means to force a first draft so that you can make it to the second one–writing even when you think it’s crap.

I also decided not to explicitly call it “orgasm rain.”

You might see the Twenty Palaces influence in this piece.

-Ryan

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