moonbird
04-30-2010, 08:55 PM
It is raining on Noxxap.
The children cringe inside their homes, clinging in fright to their parents. For some of the younger ones, it is their first storm.
On the rooftops, the downpour makes music. Ping! goes each bead as it hits the thick metal. Ping!
The children fan themselves, dripping with sweat. This is how it has always been on the invalid star of Noxxap. Without the suits they all wear, they would be burnt to a crisp in an instant. They perspire relentlessly, but not one dares complain, for they know there is no other choice. It is their way of life, just as it has been for centuries.
Out the tiny peephole in the wall, the people watch as little balls of fire zip through the air and smack hard into the ground, where they smolder for a moment before evaporating back into the red sky in a puff of smoke. It will be this way for many months, until the monsoon season is over. Meanwhile, the people must huddle inside, packed tight into their safe little building.
One of the littlest children, Syia, peers out her tiny window in awe at the downpour of fire. “What is it, Jaya?” she whispers.
Her elder sister holds her head high and looks down at little Syia as a queen would look down upon her subjects. “It’s a monsoon, of course,” she says in her most adult-like voice. “Everyone knows that.”
Syia gazes up at Jaya in wonder. “A monsoon?” she repeats.
Jaya nods.
Syia returns her eyes to the peephole and the violent thunderstorm raging outside. The beads burn red and black like countless tiny embers, dropping from the choking red-orange clouds like dead birds. Tiny lights dance in Syia’s eyes. It is her first of many monsoons to come. She leans her head against the metal wall and drifts off to sleep.
She dreams of a world of fire.
The children cringe inside their homes, clinging in fright to their parents. For some of the younger ones, it is their first storm.
On the rooftops, the downpour makes music. Ping! goes each bead as it hits the thick metal. Ping!
The children fan themselves, dripping with sweat. This is how it has always been on the invalid star of Noxxap. Without the suits they all wear, they would be burnt to a crisp in an instant. They perspire relentlessly, but not one dares complain, for they know there is no other choice. It is their way of life, just as it has been for centuries.
Out the tiny peephole in the wall, the people watch as little balls of fire zip through the air and smack hard into the ground, where they smolder for a moment before evaporating back into the red sky in a puff of smoke. It will be this way for many months, until the monsoon season is over. Meanwhile, the people must huddle inside, packed tight into their safe little building.
One of the littlest children, Syia, peers out her tiny window in awe at the downpour of fire. “What is it, Jaya?” she whispers.
Her elder sister holds her head high and looks down at little Syia as a queen would look down upon her subjects. “It’s a monsoon, of course,” she says in her most adult-like voice. “Everyone knows that.”
Syia gazes up at Jaya in wonder. “A monsoon?” she repeats.
Jaya nods.
Syia returns her eyes to the peephole and the violent thunderstorm raging outside. The beads burn red and black like countless tiny embers, dropping from the choking red-orange clouds like dead birds. Tiny lights dance in Syia’s eyes. It is her first of many monsoons to come. She leans her head against the metal wall and drifts off to sleep.
She dreams of a world of fire.