The Rain of Ruddy Gold

Rain was sparkling, shimmering all around Grayson.  He’d left his earbuds, his phone, resting atop the worn cushions of his favorite writing loveseat, where he’d always curl up his legs and hug his leather-bound notebook to his chest.  He’d feel his heart swell around him, the harmony of the thrum with the wildflowers blooming in his veins.  Every drop felt today would be a flourish of his pen tomorrow, with a new seed tucked within the manilla pages.

His hair was wet and tangled, little yellow leaves hiding in the messy waves.  He reached up and plucked one from his head, then held it before his eyes in a rain-wrinkled palm.  Every faint vein told a story of reaching out to the sun, determined to be that perfect summer green, spider-webbing with hope for finding a friend.  Eventually, the sun had fallen away and left the green to stain itself gold, their own attempt at providing light.

Grayson rubbed his own life-stamped fingertip across the ruddy gold, as if he could take it for himself.  He didn’t want to steal it away completely, just pooled away in a box of inspiration.  
He let the leaf fall, though, from the pad of his thumb to the autumn-carpeted sidewalk, and let his footsteps echo in his ears.  

Grayson so loved the veil of fall.  He loved the careful yawns of the breeze and every leaf, sweet-smelling with stories, that fluttered along with it.  With each mug of steaming apple cider, he was always enveloped in his grandfather’s memory: fresh parchment with smeared ink smudging every written masterpiece, the twinkle in his deep brown eyes, the scruffy gray beard that had seemed to always have tales of courage braided in.

Grayson sighed.  He could use those playful doses of bravery again.  He wanted so badly to share the short stories sketched with his soul with a set of friendly eyes, but he was so scared.  If only his grandpa was still around.  Grayson knew he would read the stories and give them honest feedback; He had been the one to put a true pen in his hand, afterall.  He could still remember holding his grandfather’s heavy pen in a carefully practiced grip, coving pages in their shared notebook with horrid penmanship spelling out obvious metaphors and ridiculous adventures.  Then, he’d felt like a brave knight every time he flipped to a blank page, wielding his ink like the most powerful weapon.  He still felt that surge now, but he was tentative to charge headfirst into battle, with far too few squires to capture the unformed ideas flying at him.  But when the real storm brewed inside, it was that pit in his stomach as he stared at a slightly perfect composure of sentences, debating whether to hand over his emotion-stained pages.  He doubted if they were good enough.  If his stories were pure yet strong enough.

As the rain coursed down his face, with maybe some tears mixed in, an old story trickled into his mind.  At first it was just a drop, a character’s name or two, but more began to stream, plots and paragraphs, until finally, the rain pouring in his eyes stopped.  All that was left was a rainbow of a story arch and possibly a pot of gold at the end.

The story was of a boy from a poor family who always cared for his little sister like nothing else.  He would walk her to and from school, listening the entire time to the sweet ring of her voice as she told stories.  He would turn them into flourishing written scrolls, with sweeping calligraphy for the titles.  He would, too, draw intricate illustrations to accompany each bright, bubbly fairytale.  He wanted to be an artist, a dream rooted in the core of his heart.  But.. according to everyone around him, he had to be a farmer.

One day, as the boy sat high in a tree, he sketched a brilliant scene of his sister thinking up a wonderful adventure while standing beneath a great willow tree.

Suddenly, an old woman, her hair done up in a braid crown, called to him from below.  She asked him if she could see his drawing, a kind twinkle in her bright eyes.  The boy scaled carefully down the tree and hesitantly held his sketchbook out to her.

The woman smiled and ran her fingers over the image.  She praised his talent and encouraged him to show it to at least his family.  And so he did.

Predictably, his family told him it was fine to have a hobby, but it wouldn’t make a career, and he could only do it during free time.  He was forced to work more hours on their farm, and found himself drawing at night by candlelight, trying to keep the flame going with what was left of the hope he carried.

As he walked to the marketplace one Saturday morning with a sack of plums over his shoulder and sketchbook and pencil stuffed in his pocket, he saw the woman with the braid crown standing behind a table of sculptures.  Without thinking, the boy walked up to her.

“My dear boy,” she greeted warmly.  “Have you shared your gift with the world?”

The boy bit his lip.  “Just my family,” he whispered.

“And how did it go?” she asked.

A small tear streaked his face as he said, “not great.”

“Ah,” the woman sighed, her eyes still bright.  “Well, why don’t we try a larger sample?”

The boy soon had his own table set up beside her, selling only plums, of course, but a handful of his drawings were  laying among the clay sculptures.  While he sold his stock of juicy purple fruits, he kept an eye on the people wandering up to the pages torn from his sketchbook.

At the end of the market, he walked home with two pouches jangling with money in his pocket.

The next Saturday, his table had two sections: fruit, and a stack of papers covered in every dream he’d ever had.

Grayson’s senses came back in a slow, heavy mist, and he found himself still standing beneath the tree flurrying leaves.  A large manilla envelope was peeking out of  their mailbox.  Slowly, he shuffled to the porch and tugged it out, pushing his wet bangs out of his eyes to see the address scribed in neat cursive.  It was addressed to him, Mr. Grayson Scrabirch, and was from his grandmother.  He flipped it over to find a small note scrawled on the back.

Gray, it said, your grandfather asked me to give this to you.  I couldn’t part with it for a while, but I think it’s time.

Grayson, sucking in a breath, tore open the package.  He pulled out a thick leather notebook with worn, uneven pages sticking out from under the cover.  It was their old shared story journal, and it now had a royal blue ribbon slipped between two pages near the back.  He carefully flipped to the place and there, in handwriting Grayson would never forget, a letter was written.

My Gray Austen- He had forgotten that’s what his grandfather called him- Please, please keep writing.  I know you’re probably afraid to show others your stories, but I promise you, they’re brilliant.  Everything that comes from your pen is a gift our world deserves to have.  Your words are pure and strong, absolutely everything they should be.  I love you so much, and I’m sorry we couldn’t write more stories together.  But still, know I’m with you in everything you compose.

Love,

Grandpa

Tears were rolling down Grayson’s cheeks and the envelope trembled in his shaky grip.  Hugging it to his chest, a pen rolled out.  His grandfather’s pen, with its glossy wood and delicate gold swirls.  Crying even harder, he flipped to a new page in the notebook and pressed the tip to the paper, just as a ruddy gold leaf fluttered onto the lines beside it.