What the Rain Brings Out
The smell of mushroom soup filled the small house. Mother carried the large black pot to the table, and Father brought out the small bowl of crisp fried bits to sprinkle into it.
“What did you say these were again?” asked Mother.
“Pfifferlings,” replied Father.
“They go well,” said Mother, sipping her soup.
“I agree,” said Father, sipping. “Toothsome.” As if to prove his point, he chewed slightly.
“I always liked that word,” said Mother.
Several moments passed. Mother said, “Where did the kids get off to?”
“Can’t say,” said Father, sipping his soup and chewing slightly.
After some time, Father stood and walked to the stove, where he pulled a large white log from the basket, breaking the spotted green-and-white cap off its top. He placed both on the fire, and the scent of burning mushroom filled the house, woody and somehow damp.
He returned to the table and sat back down in his chair, which was soft and gave slightly under his weight, sending faint traces of fungal dust into the air.
“Please pass the soup,” he said.
She set the pot down next to him, its weight making it sink slightly into the table. He ladled more soup into his bowl.
“Are these boletes?” he said.
“They are,” she replied, sipping.
They sat in silence for another several minutes, finishing their soup.
“Where did the kids get off to?” said Mother.
“Can’t say,” said Father.
A cloud of something like dust or ash, but with more of a shimmer, drifted down from the ceiling. Both of them looked up to the rafters hewn from giant mushroom-logs, atop which clusters of small red-white caps sprouted.
“Ah,” said Father.
“Not sure how they got up there,” said Mother.
After dinner they remained at the table, reading by the light of oil-soaked stems that burned with a woody, damp smell. A moth fluttered toward the flame at the tip of one of the long tapers and caught fire, falling and sputtering into a spent black nub. Smoke curled from it, forming a question mark before dissipating.
“I’ll have to get out to the woods tomorrow,” said Father, “see what the rain brings out. We’ve had quite a bit lately.”
“Remember to bring the big basket,” said Mother. “Last time you filled all your pockets and still had to leave some behind.”
“Good idea,” said Father. “Gather what we can before the snow comes.”
“Indeed,” said Mother.
As they talked, a translucent cloud spread, songlike, into the warmer air near the rafters, moving and changing shape as it drifted, like a murmuration.
“Where did the kids get off to?” said Mother.
“Can’t say,” said Father, sipping his soup.
The cloud drifted down, like thoughts under the gravity of sleep, covering all it touched in a layer of dust so fine and faint it was more shimmer than substance, easily brushed off and forgotten.
John K. Peck is a Berlin-based writer and musician. His fiction has appeared in Interzone, Pyre, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Cold Signal, Dark Horses, Glasgow Review of Books, and other journals. He is a frequent contributor to McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and has appeared in several McSweeney’s anthologies, and is the editor of Degraded Orbit (degradedorbit.com), a site covering unusual architecture, abandoned places, and underground digital and analog culture.
