I know it has stopped raining outside
and the sun has come back around
The day is warming and bright
But please stay on solid ground

There are pools of water
So dark and so deep
that if you try to jump in
They will rise well over your feet

You will feel yourself gripped
Like vices upon your feet
And it will be only moments
Before you are pulled underneath

I walked once with a friend
Between puddles besides a stream
She laughed as she leapt
And in a moment began to scream

I remember that frozen second
Thinking of how to save her
but all I could do was watch
As the hands pulled her underwater

I cannot forget her calling for help
In the moment before she was swallowed
I see her now in every pool
But now she calls for me to follow.


They had set out on their walk that morning, smiling at each other in the sunshine. They were caught in the rain the moment they were out of sight of their cars. It had fallen hard enough that they sought shelter, hiding beneath a large tree. Pulling their hoods down, he had insisted that they keep going despite her joking protests. So, hunched and laughing they had headed out into the rain.

They had been walking for hours. On their right side was thick, impenetrable bush and on their left was a clear and still lake.
Every time she asked how far they were from the car, he told her they would be there soon. But they never arrived.

Soon she began to recognise landmarks, passing every few hours like clockwork. When they sped up or slowed down, the path followed a clear routine.

She recognised the fallen tree that they had passed when they originally joined the path, but the bush blocked where the car park should be. She tried to stop and climb through, but it was too thick to even get her hand through. They sat on the log, a hand on her shoulder nudging her to get up after some time had passed. She stared at the path as they walked, trying to ignore the sight and focusing on the sounds of rainfall and her companion’s steps beside her.

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The rain obscures the horizon
It swallows the lights and the dusk
Its approach inevitable
And I know that I cannot run

It has washed away the skyline
A bright city turned dark vista
Everything man made liquefied
A world of unprocessed design

No one has emerged from the squall
Some have managed to outrun it
But they do not pause to describe
What they saw behind the rainfall

My house was built by others' hands
I know that it will wash away
I am accountable for my form
And wonder if I will withstand

I will cross the border of rain
Trapping removed, I leave my home
To know however briefly
What parts of me may remain


Amelia awoke to the sound of rain on the tin roof.

The sound was so quiet at first that she wasn’t sure why she had woken up at all. As she lay in bed with her eyes stubbornly clenched shut, she found herself tapping a foot, as though she were impatiently waiting for her sleep to resume.

She regretted renting the attic room in this house, cheap as it was, as she had not slept well since she moved in. She found herself tired all through the day. Not just sleepy, but physically as though she had run marathons in her sleep. She found herself twitching at work and irritated. She’d been reprimanded for rapping her fingers impatiently during meetings.

It was worse when it rained, something that was increasingly regular. Every storm was amplified horribly and she found herself waking constantly to hear heavy raindrops falling what sounded like centimetres above her head.

At least, she reminded herself as she pushed her face into the pillow, her position at the top of the house meant that she couldn’t hear the inhabitants of the lower floors. No one seemed to board in the middle floor, the owners lived on the ground floor due to, she supposed, their frailty. Their faces didn’t look terribly old, but they wore thick, baggy clothes like they felt the cold acutely and they moved so slowly, hunched and stumbling around the house when she actually saw them.

Amelia rolled onto her back, expecting that she would need to wait out this period of restless energy. She tried to recall if she had been dreaming, as the feeling of stress in the pit of her stomach had not left her. Normally waking in her bed was a relief after a nightmare, but she couldn’t remember any nightmares.

Amelia straightened herself, folding her hands above the blanket over her stomach to emulate the perfect posture for sleep. Staring at the ceiling, she found her fingers tapping insistently without her conscious decision. They rapped at the back of her other hand, one after the other. One, two, three, four, pause… one, two, three, four.

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