The Dirty Rain – An Epic of Catastrophe

It was a lonely Monday when the rain came

No thunder, no lightning, no fanfare

Clouds rolled in on whispers

The skies went from gold to a dingy grey

For a brief moment, time stood still

Silence…

And then the first few dirty droplets came down

Within minutes it was a soaker

Fat and heavy like a cleansing rain

After months of dust, smoke and pollen

The rain seemed like a small miracle

But this rain was different

Not clear, not grey or black either

And there was no hint of pollen

This rain was dirty brown like falling sludge

And it had an odd greasy appearance

The drops hit the ground brown and sticky

And they left a nasty residue which had a life of its own

Thick and slow-moving, like mudslide mud or maple syrup

It was the talk of the town; every town in fact

Puddles forming slowly, more like slop troughs

Odd miniature quagmires that you just had to avoid

And there was a smell, something like compost and wet decay

But no one questioned it; it was rain and rain was good

Nothing to be concerned about, probably just cleaning the sky

At least not at first

After the fourth continuous day

Sidewalks became one with the landscape

Some back roads were following close behind

Everything was both slippery and  gooey at the same time

And the land was growing darker by the hour

Lots of talk, lots of questions

Country folk were getting nervous

There were crops in the fields and cows out to pasture

And the sun just couldn’t seem to break through

But no official statement emerged

It seemed like a slow waiting game was in play

Days five and six passed

The dirty rain kept falling, steady and unchanged

‘Dirty rain’

That’s what the news media called it now

The weather reporters got a little extra air time

And a few expert interviews from the know it all’s

But no real explanation, just speculation

Slow and steady, the dirty rain kept falling

No one really seemed to focus on the enormity

Dirty rain was falling over every state and every nation

The skies quietly bubbled like a simmering cauldron

And the sun was nowhere to be seen

Days seven and eight came and went

No longer were the concerns made in whispers

A genuine fear was growing as some went to higher ground

Most lowland roads were impassable

Businesses were shuttered and preparations made

Questions flew, tempers flared, some came to blows

Rivers and streams were choking, turbines  frozen

Storm drains clogged and mostly overflowing

Ten days in and still no change

About then resources started getting scarce

Blackouts with no one coming to fix broken lines

Basements flooded and foundations buckling

Conversations now shifted to darker things

Apocalyptic and terrifying times seemed to be upon humankind

Bible-thumpers citing Revelations, but no one was listening

End of days and a great reckoning, said the voice on the radio

Standing room only at the alter of salvation, he said

While the people trapped in the darkness prayed

But it didn’t matter; salvation wasn’t coming

Seventeen days into the deluge

Engineering finally met its match

The great dams finally surrendered to the dirty rain

Devastation reigned as swollen rivers lashed out in fury

Banks and levees were swept away in great torrents

And many of the great basins simply disappeared

Crops and houses quietly slipped beneath the water

Families and livestock were submerged and lost forever

And still the merciless dirty rain kept falling

Day thirty came, chaos reigned

The world population was halved and halved again

Survivors desperately hiked to higher ground

But higher ground was running out in most places

The crop lands were gone, now a giant lake

Great European seas became one and deserts were swallowed

Night and day no longer different from one another

Temperatures continued falling and the world was halved again

Fuel exhausted until finally no fires remained

For the first time in history, the world was completely dark

Hunger grew, as did fear and disease

The world was halved again and again and again

Pockets of survivors kept climbing higher and higher

And still the skies spilled forth with dirty rain

The faithful ones pinned all their hope on day forty

But it too came and went, and the world was halved again

The oceans met the rivers and the great churn began

Tides just rippled with no beaches to lap upon

Marine life disappeared as the dirt water suffocated the sea water

No fish nor fowl survivors, nor any of the four-legged kinds

The high ground collapsing as the dirty rain saturation remained

On day fifty-six, the last northern ice became water

Eons of trapped bacteria entered the now-polluted seas

A thick mucous of putrid decay covered the surface

Bloated beasts moved on the endless waves like abandoned garbage

House now driftwood, cars now sea anchors

And the world was halved and halved again

Day seventy nine passed and the last of the corpses disappeared

Decomposition had run its course and the sinking commenced

Only tiny nubs of land remained; once great mountains

Even the mountain evergreens lost their struggle

And the halving was no longer worth keeping record of

For humankind was but a tiny fraction of its former glory

And then came day ninety nine

The dirty rain slowed and finally came to a stop

Gale force winds swept in from the west and there was a great folding

Clouds buckled then collapsed altogether

Then without a sound they vanished into history

And on the morning of the one hundredth day

Without a sound, the sun rose

For a brief moment, time stood still

Silence…

And the few that survived rejoiced

The dirty rain was no more

Additional Reading

If you enjoyed The Dirty Rain – An Epic of Catastrophe and would like to read more from this author, here are some suggestions.

R. J. Schwartz is the owner of this website as well as The Gypsy Thread website (and the author of all of its content).  Use this link to go to the main page and explore articles on the unexplained, poetry, witchcraft, pagan history, and to find Full Moon and Pagan Rituals (all of which are free to use).

If you’re are a writer looking for a place to get started, contact me directly at poet@gmx.us – put ‘Creative Exiles’ in the subject line.

R J Schwartz
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R J Schwartz

I write about everything and sometimes nothing at all. I'm fascinated by old things, rusty things, abandoned places, or anywhere that a secret might be unearthed. I'm passionate about history and many of my pieces are anchored in one concept of time or another. I've always been a writer, dating back to my youth, but the last decade has been a time of growth for me. I'm continually pushing the limitations of vocabulary, syntax, and descriptive phrasing.

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