Unfinished

So, I started this brilliant story (note sarcasm), and I couldn't think of an ending. So I thought I'd let all of you come up with endings. Here it is: the first (completely original) make-up-your-own-endings post! Make up your own ending, post it in the comments section, and let us all read it! The more absurd, the better. To help you get started, I'll post a random ending my brother came up with, and Jess is going to post an ending too. Then, tomorrow or whenever I get around to it, I'll post the ending I ended up writing.... And yes, it's absurd. Don't even ask how absurd it is. Just submit your endings and let the fun begin! (I feel like a carnival hawker. Do I sound like a carnival hawker to you?)

Step right up! Post your ending! Completely free! No jokes! No catches! No secret-contracts-hidding-in-the-subtext-of-this-
blog-giving-me-the-copyrights-to-your-soul!

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He stared quietly out into the rain. He wasn’t sure it should be called rain, but “rain” was the closest he could get. A drizzle? No, that’s not right either. Drizzle sounded so depressing, and these shining star-droplets falling from heaven were anything but. The clouds which caused them, a soft cooling grey, made light seem tangible, a thing to be touched and caught, wrapped up and given away with love.

The plum tree outside his window glowed. “Brown” was not the word to describe its bark - such a word does not convey the tear-streaks of rain, the deepened vibrance, the contrast between glowing green grass. Neither did it convey the life of the tree - pink buds appearing almost overnight, opening so quickly that they surprised, and so agonizingly slowly that one despaired. Always it flowered without his realizing, although he watched carefully, checking on it every day. Every spring anticipating. No word could describe the luminosity of rain, its glimmering, its gift of living.

No picture, he thought, can ever do justice to rain, or water, or fire. No picture can ever do justice to wind, can ever communicate the smell of spring, the smell of fall, the shimmering tangible light of it all. No picture can ever communicate life. He shortened that last thought. No picture can ever communicate. How depressing. I don’t think it’s true either. I just can’t seem to get it right is all....

He looked with dissatisfaction at the painting. It was technically correct - as far as it went. It failed miserably, however, to communicate the feeling of rain. It was too correct, too typical, too expected, and rain, above all, was unexpected. How could one predict which way a raindrop would slide? The pattern of light playing inside it? How could on predict the ways in which a little rain would disrupt your life? He thought, disgruntled, about his cancelled hike. Impossible.

He’d failed utterly to paint his love for rain.

He sighed. Closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, smelling the rain through the open window, he sought, groping, for some way to paint rain. A soft wind touched his face, relieving the oppressive warmth of the room.

Start at the beginning, he told himself. What color?

A truck backfired next door, and some stupid dogs started barking.