Contributor: Jacob Christensen
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The ominous jingle of the bell hanging off of the ramen-vendor door was the last sound Kyo was able to catch. There was a violent downpour swallowing up Tokyo for the past week and a half. Inches of rain began to pile up on the nightly weather forecasts during the news. It was the kind of perpetual rain that seemed to defy logic and challenged nature itself. Some would even say it was a storm that only gods could conjure up. To Kyo, however, this storm was a sight for his sore eyes. Kyo was always fond of the rain, even as a child. He would casually arouse himself from his bed to rub his stiff eyelids and throw his legs over the side of his bed where his toes would fall just short of touching the hard, cold wood flooring. The first sense that would come to him would be the sound coming from outside his stuffy room. The crescendo of raindrops pelting his window panes caused Kyo's heart to pump warm blood furiously through his veins as if his body were preparing itself for battle. To Kyo, the sound of rain was his own personal drums of war. It was a symphony that was beautiful and bitter sweet; the kind of song that not everyone could appreciate and cherish, but to the people who did, it was the sound of indulgence.
Young Kyo would jolt like a lightning bolt out of his bed and begin to sprint through his small, cramped apartment where he lived with his single mother. She would call out to him worriedly as he began to dart out into the rain; unabashed by his mother's warnings of catching pneumonia. His mother's screeching pleas were completed blanketed by the sound of the storm while Kyo descended the apartment complex's stale, concrete stairs. To him, nothing else in this world mattered but precipitation. It was as if they were the tears that rained from the clouds like mourners of some monumental death, solemnly shepherding a casket to its final resting place. As far back as he could remember, Kyo would run out into the deserted street which resembled a chaotic lake and he would tilt his head as far back as he could. He would then open his mouth wide to accept the tears from the swollen, black clouds. This was something he felt akin to his soul, something he had to do and something that required his being to be completely synchronized with earth.
Kyo reminisced about these days long past before the jingling of the shop's bells pulled him slowly out of the blanket of nostalgia. There was a bone-chilling cold that instantly greeted him at the open door and Kyo tugged his collar tightly around his neck to insulate his precious body heat. He then slipped his hand into one of the many pockets of his ragged leather jacket. His hand swam in there until it finally caught hold of his most prized possession; a small, silver lighter engraved with the number, '0'. Kyo didn’t have the faintest clue where this eccentric lighter wound up into his possession, but he felt that the question was unnecessary so long as he was able to use it.
He then fished for his Lucky Seven cigarettes and pulled one out which was sort of bent from being thrown around into his jeans. He pursed his lips tightly and placed the end of the cigarette gently between them. He then pulled the lighter closer and lit the cigarette while using his other hand to conceal the flame from the humid and harsh wind outside. He took a long puff, heavily inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs like a vacuum. Kyo put the shiny lighter and package of cigarettes back into his jacket. He exhaled the smoke through his nostrils which flared like the smokestacks of a steam locomotive. He then prepared himself and ventured outside.
Rain pelted his jacket and the sound left his ears deafened. Trying to hear anything else was out of the question. The rain wanted to receive all attention of his undivided attention and was aggressively forcing all other noises out. That's when the voices began to start. Kyo heard them although he thought it was his imagination at first. But no, this was not his imagination; this was something he had grown accustomed to. They started echoing in his head, barely audible at first. They were subtle and faceless, but steadily they rose in volume until they were blaring throughout his skull, each unique and distinct voice reverberating around the insides of Kyo's skull. He felt as if his brain would be pummeled to mush from the sheer intensity of these voices each time this happened. However, this was something he had accepted; a necessary curse for the responsibility and privilege of Kyo's power. He winced; his eyebrows pulled close like two worms trying to sniff the other out and began his journey into the black abyss that used to be Tokyo. For as long as Kyo could remember, he was able to hear people's voices in his head when it rained...
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I enjoy adjective pornography as I have an unyielding hunger to create an atmospheric presence in my writing. I am an amateur at best but I am a hopeful wielder of fiction and prose. I hope to leave something behind; a memoir or rather, a defining moment whether that be fictional or not to show who I was through the process of painting what I saw. Thank you for your time!
- -
The ominous jingle of the bell hanging off of the ramen-vendor door was the last sound Kyo was able to catch. There was a violent downpour swallowing up Tokyo for the past week and a half. Inches of rain began to pile up on the nightly weather forecasts during the news. It was the kind of perpetual rain that seemed to defy logic and challenged nature itself. Some would even say it was a storm that only gods could conjure up. To Kyo, however, this storm was a sight for his sore eyes. Kyo was always fond of the rain, even as a child. He would casually arouse himself from his bed to rub his stiff eyelids and throw his legs over the side of his bed where his toes would fall just short of touching the hard, cold wood flooring. The first sense that would come to him would be the sound coming from outside his stuffy room. The crescendo of raindrops pelting his window panes caused Kyo's heart to pump warm blood furiously through his veins as if his body were preparing itself for battle. To Kyo, the sound of rain was his own personal drums of war. It was a symphony that was beautiful and bitter sweet; the kind of song that not everyone could appreciate and cherish, but to the people who did, it was the sound of indulgence.
Young Kyo would jolt like a lightning bolt out of his bed and begin to sprint through his small, cramped apartment where he lived with his single mother. She would call out to him worriedly as he began to dart out into the rain; unabashed by his mother's warnings of catching pneumonia. His mother's screeching pleas were completed blanketed by the sound of the storm while Kyo descended the apartment complex's stale, concrete stairs. To him, nothing else in this world mattered but precipitation. It was as if they were the tears that rained from the clouds like mourners of some monumental death, solemnly shepherding a casket to its final resting place. As far back as he could remember, Kyo would run out into the deserted street which resembled a chaotic lake and he would tilt his head as far back as he could. He would then open his mouth wide to accept the tears from the swollen, black clouds. This was something he felt akin to his soul, something he had to do and something that required his being to be completely synchronized with earth.
Kyo reminisced about these days long past before the jingling of the shop's bells pulled him slowly out of the blanket of nostalgia. There was a bone-chilling cold that instantly greeted him at the open door and Kyo tugged his collar tightly around his neck to insulate his precious body heat. He then slipped his hand into one of the many pockets of his ragged leather jacket. His hand swam in there until it finally caught hold of his most prized possession; a small, silver lighter engraved with the number, '0'. Kyo didn’t have the faintest clue where this eccentric lighter wound up into his possession, but he felt that the question was unnecessary so long as he was able to use it.
He then fished for his Lucky Seven cigarettes and pulled one out which was sort of bent from being thrown around into his jeans. He pursed his lips tightly and placed the end of the cigarette gently between them. He then pulled the lighter closer and lit the cigarette while using his other hand to conceal the flame from the humid and harsh wind outside. He took a long puff, heavily inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs like a vacuum. Kyo put the shiny lighter and package of cigarettes back into his jacket. He exhaled the smoke through his nostrils which flared like the smokestacks of a steam locomotive. He then prepared himself and ventured outside.
Rain pelted his jacket and the sound left his ears deafened. Trying to hear anything else was out of the question. The rain wanted to receive all attention of his undivided attention and was aggressively forcing all other noises out. That's when the voices began to start. Kyo heard them although he thought it was his imagination at first. But no, this was not his imagination; this was something he had grown accustomed to. They started echoing in his head, barely audible at first. They were subtle and faceless, but steadily they rose in volume until they were blaring throughout his skull, each unique and distinct voice reverberating around the insides of Kyo's skull. He felt as if his brain would be pummeled to mush from the sheer intensity of these voices each time this happened. However, this was something he had accepted; a necessary curse for the responsibility and privilege of Kyo's power. He winced; his eyebrows pulled close like two worms trying to sniff the other out and began his journey into the black abyss that used to be Tokyo. For as long as Kyo could remember, he was able to hear people's voices in his head when it rained...
- - -
I enjoy adjective pornography as I have an unyielding hunger to create an atmospheric presence in my writing. I am an amateur at best but I am a hopeful wielder of fiction and prose. I hope to leave something behind; a memoir or rather, a defining moment whether that be fictional or not to show who I was through the process of painting what I saw. Thank you for your time!
Author:
Jacob Christensen
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