Bastard Rainbows
- Apr 29, 2020
- 2 min read
by D.T. Robbins
Many of them, at first. Everywhere. At any moment, springing from the ether, crashing to the soil. Multicolored circular miracles beaming across the sky. Holy spectrums of light.
Promises fulfilled, forever and ever. Amen.
The rainbows gathered to celebrate themselves, their goodness. They knew no shame, no trouble. We are the healing sufficient unto ourselves, they said.
It’s a rainbow, children pointed, told their parents. How beautiful, the parents said. Adored, revered, worshipped, remembered.
***
Awoke the storm. A rainbow set about its stretch from the heavens to earth. Wind blew. Clouds swirled. Lightning broke the rainbow in half. The top retreated to the heavens. The bottom blackened, planted itself in the ground. Arc of darkness, alive.
Earth aged. Life loosened its grip, permitting death to roam about. Equal partners, taking without request.
Rainbows were further required — beacons of hope for weary hearts.
The dark arc approached the rainbows as they congregated, celebrating themselves. They abhorred it, branded it a bastard. Back to the dirt, the dark arc departed.
***
Older still, Earth ached. Pain manifest. Scars wore the bearer. Memories abundant in brokenness, emptiness. Rainbows ignored these, obsessed with their own beauty.
The dark arc rose from the dirt. A black crescent. Bastard, said the rainbows.
It is like us, those with the scars said.
A few of them, at first, then many, came to the bastard rainbow. Not for a promise of hope. Darkness was hope.
D.T. Robbins is a writer living in Rancho Cucamonga, California. His stories have appeared in Hobart, Spelk, Bending Genres, Ghost City Review, and others. He’s editor of the new literary journal, Rejection Letters. Sometimes he tweets (@dt_robbins) and it could be worse.
