Flow and Crash - Rain Lewis Book 1

Chapter 1

Chaos. Wild, untamed, and reckless swirls of light and color swam in the emptiness surrounding me. A faint and primal beat rang deep beneath it all, punctuating the flashes and change in flow. Waves strobed from green to yellow to blue and countless hues in between.Floating rivers of light, vibrant as still-wet paint, arced around my arms and legs, bowing about my body, and the scent of drying spray paint hinted in the whipping wind. It was chaos. It was all around me, and I'd never been so thrilled by it.

No sooner had I started to recognize the shapes and patterns the wild waters were taking was it snatched away from me. The far off,insistent beat broken apart by a piercing chime that made me grind my teeth. The waters were gone, the chaos faded, and the sensations of the waking world slowly drifted in around me. The soft weight of blankets, the uneven and lumpy pillows I refused to let my Mamma replace, and the persistent scream of the hand-me-down alarm clock now blaring in my ears.

As dull a thrill as waking up could be, I could feel my heart racing. Those bright and coursing limbs of water, raising me up and tumbling me down, were still fresh in my mind. I couldn't let them get away. I opened my eyes and turned my head to find my art book right where I'd left it. On top of the hoodie crumpled up on the floor, beside my bed. I swatted the alarm clock off, swung myself over the side of my bed, and grabbed a pen from my bedside table. All without taking my eyes off the art book, afraid that if I even blinked I'd lose that trippy, wonderful chaos now quickly fading from my head.

Half hanging from my bed, arms resting on the floor, and my legs still covered by blankets, I imagined myself as carefree and flowing as the waters of my dream. Formless as I sketched them out on the first blank page I'd flipped to. I'd never recalled having a dream like that before. It was always some black sand beach, waves gently lapping at my heels, as mist rolled overhead and my dad's Miles Davis records played somewhere past the horizon. This was different. Color and movement, all as vibrant as my Mamma's paintings, alive and embracing me. Tingling the tips of my limbs and making my heart pound.

The lines from my practically ancient fine liner eked out the shapeless lines, barely capturing the effortless pouring of the watery tendrils. I knew I'd have to get a new pen soon, or hopefully snatch one from the art room if I got a chance. I'd need some paint too. As close as I could get to how it looked, it was the colors I needed to capture how it felt.I was half tempted to throw myself back into sleep, in the hopes of catching that dream again, when my door burst open.

"Ojo, get up. Get some breakfast or you'll be late for school."

I cringed. Nobody but her ever called me that. Of all my siblings I got the Yoruba name. To everybody but my Mamma (and my sister, when she wanted to annoy me) I was Rain. Rain Lewis. Still, the slap of my"proper" name didn't last long, as the pen in my hand felt heavier. "Yeah, yeah, just a minute Mamma. I just gotta-"

"No"Just a minute", you move yourself now."

There was no arguing with her about it. Especially when she said that "Now" in that particular way she did. Sharp, throaty, like she'd hurled a spear with her mouth. One of the few words that never failed to get tripped up by her accent. She'd lived in America since before even my older brother was born, and spoke like everybody else I, and the family, knew but some words just brought out the old lands in her.

I folded my art book closed over my dying pen, slipped from my bed, and slid into the clothes I'd set out the night before. Something my pops taught me, which was something he said he'd picked up when he was in basic training. It saved me having to look for clothes in the morning, when I knew my brain was about as enthusiastic as the rest of me to get moving, so I kept it up. Every time I did it I remembered my dad, and hoped I'd get a letter from him soon. From him or my brother.