Bogdan Groza
A cabin in the rain
A cabin in the rain
There was no silence, but it surely felt like it. Rain droplets continued plummeting over the thatched roof of the abandoned cabin as they did on the rest of the forest. The branches, invigorated by the unceasing downpour, shivered under the cold breeze of an impending autumn. If there were any animals around, they were sleeping quietly in their dens and burrows, protected by the warmth of each other’s proximity. Nothing dared to move in that weather and even the usual chirping had subsided, muffled by the heavy rain. There was peace.
From the dusty window, all I could see was the light of a lethargic sun as its pale rays were filtered by hefty tree trunks and an overgrown vegetation. The rain continued to fall down; although part of nature itself, it was as if it had made everything come to a full stop. This feeling of sublime immobility that the never-ending trickle was enhanced by the polyphonous rhythm it had. A constant beat outside of the cabin, similar to a cymbal-heavy jazz melody that would not cease its crescendo, and a syncopated one coming from within. Pots and pans had been predisposed around the house’s solitary living space to catch the droplets that fell from the seeping roof. The wind echoed through the house and its freezing grasp made me shiver just like the forest. I was becoming part of what surrounded me.
There were so many things on my mind, so many thoughts weighing down on my heart, that my presence in that solitary scenario felt but opportune. Life has a strange way of unfolding; there are coincidences and accidents that lead you step by step to a point that you could never have anticipated. I searched for so many answers, had so many questions and yet, that tornado of quandaries and concerns that coursed through me, almost like a downpour, now felt trivial. I had been there just for several moments and yet I had become part of a whole; the throbbing inside my chest had become the same of the droplets tapping in the pots, my body had become immovable, just like the cabin and the trees, and even my voice had vanished, subdued by the roaring silence.
Everything however had become tranquil; there was peace once more.
There were still questions, as many as the raindrops, but I had found a certainty that they would eventually find their appropriate answers. All would make sense. Eventually.
I was there to write, to carve verdicts about the world on pieces of insignificant paper, but the world would have none of that. All my thoughts, all of my troubles and all of the woes of this earth had been swallowed up by something greater, something ineffable, something that tapped continuously on that thatched roof. The world had already written what I had set out to do; there was nothing left for me there.
I closed the door behind me and left the old cabin as I had found it, abandoned and tranquil, caught up in a solemn conversation with nature. What they spoke of, what their timeless discourse had unveiled and even their words could be comprehended by those who paid attention; there is more to listing than just hearing what is being said.
There was no silence, but it surely felt like it.
Bogdan Groza, born in Romania and currently living in Italy, is doing a PhD in Philology and literary criticism at the faculty of Siena. Although he has been working mostly in Italian for the past several years, publishing in minor anthologies, recently he started writing in English to see how this influences his stories and narration. As a result, he published short stories with Deep Overstock and Flash Fiction Magazine.
From the dusty window, all I could see was the light of a lethargic sun as its pale rays were filtered by hefty tree trunks and an overgrown vegetation. The rain continued to fall down; although part of nature itself, it was as if it had made everything come to a full stop. This feeling of sublime immobility that the never-ending trickle was enhanced by the polyphonous rhythm it had. A constant beat outside of the cabin, similar to a cymbal-heavy jazz melody that would not cease its crescendo, and a syncopated one coming from within. Pots and pans had been predisposed around the house’s solitary living space to catch the droplets that fell from the seeping roof. The wind echoed through the house and its freezing grasp made me shiver just like the forest. I was becoming part of what surrounded me.
There were so many things on my mind, so many thoughts weighing down on my heart, that my presence in that solitary scenario felt but opportune. Life has a strange way of unfolding; there are coincidences and accidents that lead you step by step to a point that you could never have anticipated. I searched for so many answers, had so many questions and yet, that tornado of quandaries and concerns that coursed through me, almost like a downpour, now felt trivial. I had been there just for several moments and yet I had become part of a whole; the throbbing inside my chest had become the same of the droplets tapping in the pots, my body had become immovable, just like the cabin and the trees, and even my voice had vanished, subdued by the roaring silence.
Everything however had become tranquil; there was peace once more.
There were still questions, as many as the raindrops, but I had found a certainty that they would eventually find their appropriate answers. All would make sense. Eventually.
I was there to write, to carve verdicts about the world on pieces of insignificant paper, but the world would have none of that. All my thoughts, all of my troubles and all of the woes of this earth had been swallowed up by something greater, something ineffable, something that tapped continuously on that thatched roof. The world had already written what I had set out to do; there was nothing left for me there.
I closed the door behind me and left the old cabin as I had found it, abandoned and tranquil, caught up in a solemn conversation with nature. What they spoke of, what their timeless discourse had unveiled and even their words could be comprehended by those who paid attention; there is more to listing than just hearing what is being said.
There was no silence, but it surely felt like it.
Bogdan Groza, born in Romania and currently living in Italy, is doing a PhD in Philology and literary criticism at the faculty of Siena. Although he has been working mostly in Italian for the past several years, publishing in minor anthologies, recently he started writing in English to see how this influences his stories and narration. As a result, he published short stories with Deep Overstock and Flash Fiction Magazine.