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Describing the rain   115 comments.

Describing the rain. I hope to give you all the information you need to write a descriptive scene using the rain.My new book ‘Writing with Stardust’, is now available on Amazon. It is the ultimate descriptive guide for students and teachers. Just click on any of the book images below.

The FULL post with 5 levels can be viewed in PDF by clicking here:

DESCRIBING THE RAIN

LEVEL 1 I looked out the window. The sky was tar-black and the large clouds were moving towards me. I heard a tapping on the window and then it became a pitter-patter. People ran for cover outside and umbrellas were opened as the clouds spat out their beads of water. Puddles began plinking as the rainfall became heavier. The roofs of the cars danced with spray and I could hear the murmuring of the rain through the window. It sounded like the buzzing of angry bees.

For a Level 2 assignment, more detail should be added. Imagine the effect of the rain on the trees and include more detail on the sky and clouds. At the end of the paragraph, try to write something about the sun coming out. This will vary your writing style.

LEVEL 2 I quickened my pace as the clouds began to gather in the sky. Up to now, the sky had been postcard-perfect, but it was changing. The beautiful cocktail-blue shade was beginning to darken into gravel-grey. Large pillows of cloud were forming, blotting out the old-gold colour of the sun. I got the first splatter of rain when I was halfway across the meadow. I took shelter under an old oak, hoping that I could see out the shower. Droplets of moisture began to drip from the leaves. They were sprinkling onto the grass like a gardener’s hose. Then the rainfall became more intense. A wall of rain moved over the oak and the drops were drumming against the canopy. So much rain was falling that the sound blurred into one long, whirring noise. It reminded me of the rotor blades on a helicopter. Eventually, the noise lessened and the drops faded into a musical chime. The sun came out again, casting slanted beams of light across the meadow. Steam rose slowly from the grass. It rose up eerily and drifted mist-like towards the molten-gold sun. The image was so vivid that it stayed with me all the way home.

Level 3 should conjure up a scene where the rain’s effect can be explored in more detail. The words should get more complex also. An idea might be to visualise a forest scene in autumn, for example. Transport yourself there and describe the colours, the sensations and the sounds of the rain.

LEVEL 3 It began as a whispering in the air. The day had been beautiful and the sky was like a dome of plasma-blue. The clouds had looked like airy anvils drifting under the gleaming disc of sun. We had put our tent up just before the Reaper’s moon of autumn appeared over the trees. The moon seemed to turn the leaves into a flaming patchwork of colours: scorching-yellows, lava-reds and burnished-browns. It added an alien glamour to a perfect scene. We heard a greedy thrush, snail a-tapping on rock; he finished his supper before fluttering into the owl-light of the forest. The mournful cry of a lonely fox echoed through the vault-still silence of the trees. A huffing wind rose up then, stirring the flaps of our tent. A tinkling sound came to our ears as the first pearls of rain dropped onto the leaves. The sound was like the glassy clinking of a champagne flute, lilting and clear. A sheet of rain passed over us and the sound intensified. The noise on the tent was like the phut-phut-phut that ripened nuts make when they hit the ground. It wasn’t the soft, sodden, swollen drops of spring we were hearing; it was like ball-bearings were hitting the canvas roof with force. We could also hear an occasional ker-plunking sound. It was caused by the rainwater gathered on the tent falling to the ground in a great swash of release. The thermometer plunged as we huddled together and shivered in the tent. For a brief moment, we thought that we might be doomed adventurers, destined to get swept away in a mighty flood. We needn’t have worried. The curtain of rain passed over by the time dawn arrived. An explosion of birdsong erupted from the dripping trees and it was if the rain had never been.

A Level 4 assignment might involve a degree of philosophy. You can discuss how the rain is both life giving and life threatening. The metaphors should be more creative and the turn of phrase made more enriching.

LEVEL 4 ‘The sun enables life. The rain grants it safe passage’. The winter sky is a widow’s sky, bedarkened and weeping. The clouds are churlish and kraken-cruel. They cough out great gouts of water and thunking balloons of sopping moisture. It teems down in a biblical deluge, flooding the rivers, drowning the fields and overflowing the dams. It is a Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, an unending cataract of water sluicing from the sky. Trees are uprooted, cars go bobbing by and entire villages disappear under a frothy lather of suds. Cities are overwhelmed and electricity blackouts have people living in fear of the unknown. The rain is incessant. It snaps and crackles like bracken pods in a bush fire. The flood-gates in the sky have been opened and no-one is there to close them back up, it seems. Is this the scene from a sci-fi movie? Is it a terrifying vision of a future world? Indeed it is not. It is the new reality for people from Missouri to Manchester, from Mumbai to Melbourne. The rain is man’s new enemy, according to news reports. It is public enemy number one. It has betrayed man and is now the most destructive arrow in nature’s quiver. The rain has a bad ‘rep’ at the moment. Is this how it should be viewed? Maybe we are forgetting the gifts it bestows upon us. The spring sky is a fragile, pellucid-blue. The clouds are frail and angel-white. They are carried on a light, ruffling breeze. The soil of Mother Earth is titanium hard and in need of nourishment. A misty rain falls down. It is as frail as a Scottish smirr and its misty dew feels like warm butter melting on a face. As it falls, it unlocks the glassy fingers of winter’s frosty fist, one by one. Flowers slowly unfurl in the meadows and ripple like coral arms at low tide. The rivers exhale with a murmurous purr of satisfaction. The spring rains are here and they are as sinless and glistening as an angel’s tears. The summer sky is neon-blue and vibrant. The sun-crisped flowers of the meadow are wilting. They gape at the tufty clouds and beg for their parched petals to be given one more shot of insulin. The clouds oblige and rain descends in little gleam-drops of silver. If you were to stand in the meadow, the drops would feel as sparkly and effervescent as champagne bubbles hitting your skin. The sound of the rain is a harmonic thrumming, nature’s white noise. Silver trickles of water seep into the soil, renewing the life-roots of the plants beneath. A homely, baked-earth smell rises from the land as it is washed and cleansed by the dewy tears of summer rain. Petrichor, the smell of the first rains after a dry spell, rises like a miasma. It is a jasmine-and-gingerbread fragrance, warm and fresh, and it laves the land with sweetness. The farmer is happy. The rain has giveth what the sun would taketh away. The autumn sky is dark and vengeful. Steaming shrouds of cloud coil and writhe. Then an unearthly caterwauling sound fills the air. The wind whips up into frenzy. It is a shrieking, keening omen of the carnage to follow. The clouds race across the sky, thrumming with the charged energy they are desperate to release. It starts with big, sopping drops of moisture. They are wild and indiscriminate, plump missiles of mass destruction that splatter onto the soft soil. The topsoil turns into slushy goo, but it doesn’t matter. The harvest has been taken in and the farmer stokes the glowing coals with a poker and a sigh of contentment. The rain is sissing and hissing off the roof, teeming onto the spongy earth. The farmer thinks about how most gifts come with a cost. He shudders at the thought of another winter, but counts his blessings that the rain has once again ensured his livelihood. To him, the rain is the nectar of the gods and the serum of the sky. He is neither philosopher nor ancient mariner, neither writer nor jungle adventurer, yet he understands the importance of nature’s bounty. If beauty is God’s signature, then rain is his final flourish.

Level 5 is available to read on my new book called ‘Writing with Stardust’ which is on Amazon. It also gives the sounds of rain in more detail. Everything on my blog posts AND MUCH, MUCH MORE are included in this book. There are 20 chapters jam-packed with colours, sounds, scents, beautiful phrases and practical tips. It also comes with a fill-in-the-blanks workbook. Hopefully, this post will help those who need guidance on describing the rain. God bless and good luck with your writing!

For much more of the above, please check out my book Writing with Stardust  by clicking on the book images..

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Posted February 16, 2013 by liamo in Uncategorized

Tagged with adjectives for the rain , best rain descriptions , describing storms , describing the rain , the sound of rain , walking in the rain

115 responses to “ Describing The Rain ”

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Dear Liam, I have been enjoying our writing now, but i would be more interested if you could describe a city please

Kind regards, Joel

It’s extremely detailed! I’m struggling to even type these words! just wow

Hi Linda: Thanks for the generous comment and its much appreciated. Thanks. Liam.

Pingback: Top 8 bài văn tả cơn mưa lớp 5 mới nhất năm 2022 - Tip247

Umm…can i use these words in my writing? You won’t mind it right?

english learners find these descriptions confused, so many new words:””)))

english learners find these descriptions confusing, so many new words:””))), also very good too

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19,885 quotes, descriptions and writing prompts, 4,964 themes

a rainy day - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing

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The rainy day soaks the paintings of my memory, softening sharp edges until knives and knaves become dust piles and jokers.

The rainy day comes with a confident wind, rousing the trees into a vortex of dance.

Upon this rainy day I am woven by these water threads into the ether that stretches from heavens to earth.

The rainy day comes with its heaven-given soundtrack, washing every hue into a strong and soulful vibrancy.

The rainy day comes as invitation to rest, to relax, to let the ever steady moment expand into dreamy poetic wonderings.

The rainy day offers the gift of meditation, for each tiny water-globe to touch the skin is a moment for the soul to command.

In each cloud-birthed water-globe is the chance of a rainbow's song.

Each raindrop is a kaleidoscope, if we could only see more closely. I wonder as I walk how it would be to stop time, to suspend this watery gift and peek through each one. Perhaps it would be fun to sit inside those raindrops and take that gravity propelled ride to the earth, as I imagine it I feel my inner self laughing - a little at the crazy daydream and a little at my own silliness. I see the rain beads upon the cars, upon each leaf and washing my outstretched fingers. Soon they will pull together, forming the puddles, opening up a whole new avenue of rain-related fun. Perhaps it isn't normal to love a rainy day so much, but who cares about normal anyway? I'm pretty sure "normal" is a made up thing.

It was still early when the clouds gave of their rain to the grass and trees, when the road became alive with more splashes than my eyes could appreciate. Yet together they brought such a soothing sound, a natural melody every bit as beautiful as a mother's soulful hum. I felt each splash that touched my skin, watched my cardigan become a deeper, more rocky hue. It was as if earlier the street had been a matt photograph, only to be washed as glossy as any magazine page.

With eyes at rest in the way of dreams, I hear the quenching rain. The percussion of the given water varies according to the surface it wets. There is the drums that are windows, the cymbals that are the concrete floor, and the soft, soft maracas that are the music of the grass. The triangles are the puddles, a high note to pick up the mood, to sing of the joy of the plants upon such a day.

Here comes the rain, little darlin,' desalinated by nature's own hand and given freely. Here comes the water we need for every part of life we cherish and hold sacred. For it is from the clouds as much as the sunshine that life comes forth, the cozy days of reflection to add to the dancing in warm rays. It deepens every hue, brings a boldness to scenes so familiar, a nuance that is so refreshing to the eye.

Have you heard the rain this morning? It’s crazy! Those drops are bigger than prairie hailstones and coming down just as hard. I’ll just turn the dishwasher off here so you can listen to it better. It’s almost as if the drops are striking your eardrums, right? I actually like it, I find it soothing. Anyhow, it’s just you, me and the dirty breakfast dishes. The kids are at school already, you should have seen them go all togged up in rain jackets and umbrellas. I was going to give them rides but the school is just so close and the traffic so bad in the mornings that it’s actually quicker to walk. I do hope their feet stayed dry, look at that water on the street. Come over to the window, you’ll see it way better. It’s a shallow river over the tarmac, we get that so much. Did I say it’s a temperate rainforest here? Oh, I did? Well, the kids do say I repeat myself a lot, maybe they’re right after all!

Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft , authored by Daisy .

My bicycle wheels turn over the wet track, my speed bringing the cold rain into my face harder than it would were I walking. My jacket gave up on keeping my body dry a while ago and now my trunk is as wet as my legs. On a rainy day like this there's just no point in heavy clothes, the only thing that'll keep me warm is my own movement, the pumping of my legs against the pedals. Head down, press on, thinking of the warmth at the other end. There's a part of me that's jealous of the car drivers, safe behind shatter-proof glass and painted steel. But then I recall my cyclist's mantra, "bikes burn fat and save money, cars burn money and save fat." After that I'm free to enjoy the rain, its part of life after all.

The rain has fallen steadily without let up since before I woke. Outside the summer flowers and leaves droop under the weight of the droplets. We've had so much heat lately that I'd almost forgotten this feeling, the cool freshness in the breeze. Come late autumn I won't be nearly be so impressed with the rain in whatever way it falls; it will be as ubiquitous as the lousy sit-coms and weight-loss advertisements. But for August it's such a novelty that I find myself sitting on the front porch, coffee in hand, watching the drips as they fall from beneath the guttering. Simply being outside without the need for sunglasses, taking in the softened hues with my naked eyes, and listening to the drumming is a treat. Something about this rain has me more relaxed than I've been in days and I'm in no hurry for the clouds to vanish, returning us to the dry heat that is so customary at this time of year.

Outside was an unexpected gift of rain. The wet season didn't generally start for another fortnight but the skies don't lie. It wasn't a mean rain either, the type that got everyone wet without filling the rain barrels. It was the type that got the streams running with pristine water from the mountains. Rose stood on the doorstep, her arms folded around herself in the best hug she could have without Joe being home. After such a dry summer it was all she could do to stop herself from dancing barefoot outside while the drops plastered her hair to her face.

The umbrella snapped closed, releasing a gravity defying plume of small droplets. Tara pulled down her hood and shook her hair to gain some life back into her flattened locks.

Mac stirs behind his closed eyelids, his mind ceasing dream-mode to bring him back to wakefulness. At first he's slightly confused; he hears the fan he's been cooling himself with this long dry summer, yet he knows he didn't turn it on before bed. A slow smile creeps over his face. He doesn't hear the drone of a fan he hears rain falling thickly outside, the beautiful sound passing right through his open window. He rolls to get up as his eyes open and takes himself to see the rainfall, already feeling the soothing coldness of the breeze. There is the scent of wetness, so ever-present in the autumn but so rare for late August. Today will be a day for long pants and an umbrella, a strong black coffee and fried plantain on toast with chilli sauce. A day for enjoying all the things that go with a change in season.

Between the hail and the rain I'm okay where I am. In this warm room, seeing the streaming sunlight that comes regardless of clouds; I'm content to watch the ever changing picture that is the world beyond mine. The newly washed roofs gleam as brightly as mirrors, the blossom tenacious on the branches that dance. It's a rainy day, one for the books, tea mugs and cozy socks.

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9 Writing Prompts about Rain

The rain was heavier now, drumming on the roof, as darkness crept across the room. The embers of the fire were a dull glow as the rain drops pelted against the glass of the window.

I bet I’m not the only one who enjoys a good rain storm… when I’m inside and dry that is.

It’s one of those innate reactions to a primal force perhaps, that we’ve been dealing with for as long as humans have existed.

So what better a force to inspire a creative story, or help us think about how a force of nature impacts us in a whole range of different ways.

I’ve written a collection of prompts all about the rain, to share with you today, and if you haven’t tried them already you should also check out our winter writing prompts too. Enjoy!

How to use these prompts:

Read through the list until one immediately triggers a thought or emotion in response – grab that one and run with it! Write as much as you can on the topic without stopping to correct punctuation or anything else!

Take a prompt at random, and write 300 words on it. Swap with a buddy who has written their own 300 words on a different prompt, and complete each others piece of writing with an additional 300 words. Something different to try.

Pick a random number – that’s your prompt from the list. Write a page on the topic.

You may well have other different ways of using the prompts to inspire discussion and/or writing – and that is ok!

9 Writing Prompts about Rain:

• Heavy rain is often said to help people sleep. Why do you think this is? Have you experienced this?
• If you didn’t have running water in your home, think about how you could collect rain water, and make sure it was safe to drink.
• Think back to a time when you were warm, cosy and dry while the rain poured down outside. Describe it in as much detail as you can.
• While often people like to complain about rainy weather, it can be extremely important to get regular rainfall. When do you think rain is most welcome?
• Imagine you’re an animal in a desert, and have been waiting many months for a single drop of rain. What is it like when you see dark clouds rolling in finally, and the rain starts pouring down?
• If you got lost in the forest while out hiking, how would you build a shelter to keep dry as the rain started?
• What is the best thing about rain, and why?
• Think of how your pets have reacted to rain, and write about it using as much detail as you can.
• Have you ever been swimming in the rain? Write about your experience, or what you imagine it would be like.

Looking for more free printables and prompts?

I’ve got some good news, and some even better news.

The good news is that we have literally thousands of writing prompts for you to use to inspire either your own writing, or that of your students.

The even better news is that we are constantly adding to our prompts, as well as our multitude of other free tools for teachers and printable resources.

Tell your friends about the site, it really helps us out 🙂

Thanks, Matt & Hayley

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The Best Rain in Literature

Straight and silvery, big as buckshot, a thin knife of cool.

This morning, it is raining, and I am drinking tea. Whenever these two elements coincide, I always think of a poem I discovered and fell in love with as an irreverent literary teen: “It is raining. / I guess I’ll make / Some tea.” Yes, it’s a haiku, and sure, it’s by Gary Snyder, but what do you want from me, I was thirteen years old and still amazed at what counted as poetry. I inscribed this poem on my bedspread in fabric paint. I cannot pour tea in the rain without it bouncing through my head. I make this confession only to say that there is rain of all kinds in literature, and considering that it is April (month of showers) and it is a strange April because so many of us are spending it inside (which makes the rain much more appealing and romantic), I thought I would highlight some of my favorites. Maybe a phrase from the below will stick with you and torment you for years, who knows? One can only hope.

From Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea :

The rain came down, straight and silvery, like a punishment of steel rods. It clattered onto the house and onto the rocks and pitted the sea. The thunder made some sounds like grand pianos falling downstairs, then settled to a softer continuous rumble, which was almost drowned by the sound of the rain. The flashes of lightning joined into long illuminations which made the grass a lurid green, the rocks a blazing ochre yellow, as yellow as Gilbert’s car.

From Clarie-Louise Bennet’s Pond :

Incredible, really. Or so it seemed to me as I went by and heard the thing play out. Further along there were those very small raindrops, droplets I suppose, which attach themselves with resolute but nonetheless ebullient regularity among the fronds of a beautiful type of delicate crass, appearing, for all the world, like a squandered chandelier dashing headlong down the hillside.

From Halldór Laxness’s  Independent People :

Shortly afterwards it started raining, very innocently at first, but the sky was packed tight with cloud and gradually the drops grew bigger and heavier, until it was autumn’s dismal rain that was falling—rain that seemed to fill the entire world with its leaden beat, rain suggestive in its dreariness of everlasting waterfalls between the planets, rain that thatched the heavens with drabness and brooded oppressively over the whole countryside, like a disease, strong in the power of its flat, unvarying monotony, its smothering heaviness, its cold, unrelenting cruelty. Smoothly, smoothly it fell, over the whole shire, over the fallen marsh grass, over the troubled lake, the iron-grey gravel flats, the sombre mountain above the croft, smudging out every prospect. And the heavy, hopeless, interminable beat wormed its way into every crevice in the house, lay like a pad of cotton wool over the ears, and embraced everything, both near and far, in its compass, like an unromantic story from life itself that has no rhythm and no crescendo, no climax, but which is nevertheless overwhelming in its scope, terrifying in its significance. And at the bottom of this unfathomed ocean of teeming rain sat the little house and its one neurotic woman.

From Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore :

In the afternoon dark clouds suddenly color the sky a mysterious shade and it starts raining hard, pounding the roof and windows of the cabin. I strip naked and run outside, washing my face with soap and scrubbing myself all over. It feels wonderful. In my joy I shut my eyes and shout out meaningless words as the large raindrops strike me on the cheeks, the eyelids, chest, side, penis, legs, and butt—the stinging pain like a religious initiation or something. Along with the pain there’s a feeling of closeness, like for once in my life the world’s treating me fairly. I feel elated, as if all of a sudden I’ve been set free. I face the sky, hands held wide apart, open my mouth wide, and gulp down the falling rain.

From William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying :

It begins to rain. The first harsh, sparse, swift drops rush through the leaves and across the ground in a long sigh, as though of relief from intolerable suspense. They are as big as buckshot, warm as though fired from a gun; they sweep across the lantern in a vicious hissing. Pa lifts his face, slack-mouthed, the wet black rim of snuff plastered close along the base of his gums; from behind his slack-faced astonishment he muses as though from beyond time, upon the ultimate outrage. Cash looks once at the sky, then at the lantern. The saw has not faltered, the running gleam of its pistoning edge unbroken. “Get something to cover the lantern,” he says.

From NoViolet Bulawayo’s  We Need New Names :

Then it starts raining, like maybe Godknows has made it rain by all his talking. It’s a light rain, the kind that just licks you. We sit in it and smell the delicious earth around us.

Me, I want my mother, Godknows says after a long while. His voice is choking in the rain and I look at his face and it’s wet and I don’t know which is the rain, which are the tears. I am thinking I want my mother too, we all want our mothers, even though when they are here we don’t really care about them. Then, after just a little while, even before we are proper wet, the rain stops and the sun comes out and pierces, like it wants to show the rain who is who. We sit there and get cooked in it.

From Virginia Woolf’s  The Years :

It was raining. A fine rain, a gentle shower, was peppering the pavements and making them greasy. Was it worth while opening an umbrella, was it necessary to hail a hansom, people coming out from the theatres asked themselves, looking up at the mild, milky sky in which the stars were blunted. Where it fell on earth, on fields and gardens, it drew up the smell of earth. Here a drop poised on a grass-blade; there filled the cup of a wild flower, till the breeze stirred and the rain was spilt. Was it worth while to shelter under the hawthorn, under the hedge, the sheep seemed to question; and the cows, already turned out in the grey fields, under the dim hedges, munched on, sleepily chewing with raindrops on their hides. Down on the roofs it fell–here in Westminster, there in the Ladbroke Grove; on the wide sea a million points pricked the blue monster like an innumerable shower bath. Over the vast domes, the soaring spires of slumbering University cities, over the leaded libraries, and the museums, now shrouded in brown holland, the gentle rain slid down, till, reaching the mouths of those fantastic laughers, the many-clawed gargoyles, it splayed out in a thousand odd indentations. A drunken man slipping in a narrow passage outside the public house, cursed it. Women in childbirth heard the doctor say to the midwife, “It’s raining.” And the walloping Oxford bells, turning over and over like slow porpoises in a sea of oil, contemplatively intoned their musical incantation. The fine rain, the gentle rain, poured equally over the mitred and the bareheaded with an impartiality which suggested that the god of rain, if there were a god, was thinking Let it not be restricted to the very wise, the very great, but let all breathing kind, the munchers and chewers, the ignorant, the unhappy, those who toil in the furnace making innumerable copies of the same pot, those who bore red hot minds through contorted letters, and also Mrs Jones in the alley, share my bounty.

From James Joyce’s  Dubliners :

It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds.

From Willie Perdomo’s “ We Used to Call it Puerto Rico Rain “:

The rain had just finished saying,  This block is mine .

The kind of rain where you could sleep through two

breakthroughs, and still have enough left to belly-sing

the ambrosial hour.

Blood pellets in the dusk & dashes of hail were perfect for

finding new stashes; that is to say, visitations were never

From Lauren Groff’s “ The Midnight Zone “:

The rain increased until it was deafening and still my sweaty children slept. I thought of the waves of sleep rushing through their brains, washing out the tiny unimportant flotsam of today so that tomorrow’s heavier truths could wash in. There was a nice solidity to the rain’s pounding on the roof, as if the noise were a barrier that nothing could enter, a stay against the looming night.

I tried to bring back the poems of my youth, and could not remember more than a few floating lines, which I put together into a strange, sad poem, Blake and Dickinson and Frost and Milton and Sexton, a tag-sale poem in clammy meter that nonetheless came alive and held my hand for a little while.

Then the rain diminished until all that was left were scattered clicks from the drops falling from the pines

From Charles Dickens’ Bleak House :

The weather had been all the week extremely sultry, but the storm broke so suddenly—upon us, at least, in that sheltered spot—that before we reached the outskirts of the wood the thunder and lightning were frequent and the rain came plunging through the leaves as if every drop were a great leaden bead. As it was not a time for standing among trees, we ran out of the wood, and up and down the moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence like two broad-staved ladders placed back to back, and made for a keeper’s lodge which was close at hand. We had often noticed the dark beauty of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of trees, and how the ivy clustered over it, and how there was a steep hollow near, where we had once seen the keeper’s dog dive down into the fern as if it were water.

The lodge was so dark within, now the sky was overcast, that we only clearly saw the man who came to the door when we took shelter there and put two chairs for Ada and me. The lattice-windows were all thrown open, and we sat just within the doorway watching the storm. It was grand to see how the wind awoke, and bent the trees, and drove the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear the solemn thunder and to see the lightning; and while thinking with awe of the tremendous powers by which our little lives are encompassed, to consider how beneficent they are and how upon the smallest flower and leaf there was already a freshness poured from all this seeming rage which seemed to make creation new again.

From Elizabeth Hardwick’s  Sleepless Nights :

Sometimes the rain was beautiful. The lavender and silver streaks, gleaming in the mud, seek to be honored, to receive some word of gratitude. The kindness of damp afternoons, the solace of opening the door and finding everyone there.

What next? Where to? Even in the midst of it all, in the devoted warmth, the well-disposed threat of familiarity, the cemetery waits to be desecrated.

From Toni Morrison’s  Song of Solomon :

She was thoroughly soaked before she realized it was raining and then only because one of the shopping bags split. When she looked down, her Evan-Picone white-with-a-band-of-color skirt was lying in a neat half fold on the shoulder of the road, and she was far far from home. She put down both bags, picked the skirt up and brushed away the crumbs of gravel that stuck to it. Quickly she refolded it, but when she tried to tuck it back into the shopping bag, the bag collapsed altogether. Rain soaked her hair and poured down her neck as she stooped to repair the damage. She pulled out the box of Con Brios, a smaller package of Van Raalte gloves, and another containing her fawn-trimmed-in-sea-foam shortie nightgown. These she stuffed into the other bag. Retracing hers steps, she found herself unable to carry the heavier bag in one hand, so she hoisted it up to her stomach and hugged it with both arms. She had gone hardly ten yards when the bottom fell out of it. Hagar tripped on Jungle Red (Sculptura) and Youth Blend, and to her great dismay, saw her box of Sunny Glow toppling into a puddle. She collected Jungle Red and Youth Blend safely, but Sunny Glow, which had tipped completely over and lost its protective disk, exploded in light peach puffs under the weight of the raindrops. Hagar scraped up as much of it as she could and pressed the wilted cellophane disk back into the box.

Jack Gilbert’s “Rain”:

Suddenly this defeat. This rain. The blues gone gray And the browns gone gray And yellow A terrible amber. In the cold streets Your warm body. In whatever room Your warm body. Among all the people Your absence The people who are always Not you.

I have been easy with trees Too long. Too familiar with mountains. Joy has been a habit. Now Suddenly This rain.

From Kevin Barry’s “ Fjord of Killary “:

So I bought an old hotel on the fjord of Killary. It was set hard by the harbor wall, with Mweelrea Mountain across the water, and disgracefully gray skies above. It rained two hundred and eighty-seven days of the year, and the locals were given to magnificent mood swings. On the night in question, the rain was particularly violent—it came down like handfuls of nails flung hard and fast by a seriously riled sky god. I was at this point eight months in the place and about convinced that it would be the death of me.

“It’s end-of-the-fucking-world stuff out there,” I said.

From J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye :

Boy, it began to rain like a bastard. In buckets, I swear to God. All the parents and mothers and everybody went over and stood right under the roof of the carrousel, so they wouldn’t get soaked to the skin or anything, but I stuck around on the bench for quite a while. I got pretty soaking wet, especially my neck and my pants. My hunting hat really gave me quite a lot of protection, in a way; but I got soaked anyway. I didn’t care, though. I felt so damn happy all of a sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around. I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don’t know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all. God, I wish you could’ve been there.

From Jesmyn Ward’s  Sing, Unburied, Sing :

“A dollar thirty,” she says, and I have to lean toward her to hear because thunder booms, a great clacking split, and the sky dumps water on the tin roof of the building: a tumble of sound. I can’t see down her shirt but it’s what I think about when I’m standing out in the rain, the back of my shirt pulled over my head like it could protect me, but all of me wet, gas fumes thick with the smell of wet earth, rain running down to blind my eyes, to stream from my nose. It all makes me feel like I can’t breathe. I remember just in time and tilt my head back, hold my breath, and let rain trickle down my throat. A thin knife of cool when I swallow. Once. Twice. Three times because the pump is so slow. The rain presses my eyes closed, kneads them. I think I hear a whisper of something, a whoosh of a word, but then it’s gone and the nozzle goes slack. The care is close and warm, and Kayla is snoring.

From William Shakespeare’s King Lear :

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks! You sulfurous and thought-executing fires, 5Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ th’ world, Crack nature’s molds, all germens spill at once That make ingrateful man!

From Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd :

The air changed its temperature and stirred itself more vigorously. Cool breezes coursed in transparent eddies round Oak’s face. The wind shifted yet a point or two and blew stronger. In ten minutes every wind of heaven seemed to be roaming at large. Some of the thatching on the wheat-stacks was now whirled fantastically aloft, and had to be replaced and weighted with some rails that lay near at hand. This done, Oak slaved away again at the barley. A huge drop of rain smote his face, the wind snarled round every corner, the trees rocked to the bases of their trunks, and the twigs clashed in strife. Driving in spars at any point and on any system, inch by inch he covered more and more safely from ruin this distracting impersonation of seven hundred pounds. The rain came on in earnest, and Oak soon felt the water to be tracking cold and clammy routes down his back. Ultimately he was reduced well-nigh to a homogeneous sop, and the dyes of his clothes trickled down and stood in a pool at the foot of the ladder. The rain stretched obliquely through the dull atmosphere in liquid spines, unbroken in continuity between their beginnings in the clouds and their points in him.

Kay Ryan’s “Expectations”:

We expect rain to animate this creek: these rocks to harbor gurgles, these pebbles to creep downstream a little, those leaves to circle in the eddy, the stains and gloss of wet. The bed is ready but no rain yet.

From Colson Whitehead’s  The Colossus of New York :

Out on the street they hardly notice the clouds before it starts raining. The rain comes down in sheets. Drenched all at once, not drop by drop. The first drop is the pistol at the start of the race and at that crack people move for shelter, any ragtag thing, they huddle under ripped awnings, the doorway of the diner, suddenly an appetite for coffee. Pressed up against buildings as if on the lam. Little sprints and dashes between horizontal cover. Dry here. Surely it will stop soon, they think. They can wait it out. It cannot last forever.

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The Downpour

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• July 31, 2021

As school got over, raindrops trickled down my face as I cycled home. It was raining, the bright sun had disappeared behind dark clouds. I went home changed into fresh clothes and snuggled into bed with a glass of hot chocolate with marshmallows. Out of my window I saw people covering their heads and running towards their houses. Some children were even playing in the rain. A cool breeze blew that refreshed and soothed everyone. Paper boats were sailing down the puddles.  I felt like going out in the rain and getting drenched and asked my mother if she would come too. She readily agreed. Without wearing raincoats, we ran down. A peacock was dancing in the rain in the city? Is it believable?

I ran to the park which was generally filled with boys and girls playing together. As it was raining the whole park was left to the two of us. The trees were watered by the raindrops. My mother and I danced and played in the rain. Flowers bloomed and  cars were on the street. 

Soon it was raining heavily, the streets were flooded. From one of the cars came  my father. He joined us. We got tired and went home. Then my friends came with bats , balls and wickets. We started playing cricket. It was fun playing in the rain. I did not realize I had spent one hour in the rain. I went home and suddenly the sun was shining again, the rain slowly stopped. 

Thespace.ink has collaborated with ‘Word Munchers’, a creative writing platform that trains and encourages kids and youngsters to hone their creative writing skills. Thespace.ink will be publishing two short essays by students of ‘Word Munchers’ every Saturday.

Lakshya Rohira, 9 years

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Fond of candid and unambiguous writings, Indrajit Ghosh was born in a hamlet in West Bengal by the side of a tributary of the Ganga. With French Language and Literature education from JNU, New Delhi, his interest lies in bittersweet and analytical writings not plagued by sentimentalism and inertia of convention. His finance dwellings are that of a writer, translator, and video maker. Some of his favourite authors/auteurs include Ramanath Ray, Clarice Lispector, Mrinal Sen, Kim ki-duk, Kamla Das, and Jacques Prévert.

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