The first little snipit over here.

The Story of the Monsoon

The Fire Bird always told the coming of the monsoon. She rose, chasing the bones of her lover in the same fate as Sisyphus to his rock and stone. Impossibilities to no end.
They would note the coming from the Fire Bird’s blazing display. She would rise, her feathers moulting the white flame and her shrieking cries never-ending for two weeks. By the end of her warning her shrieks and cries died out and white flames burned to nothing.
The men and women uncharacteristically equalled shares in the work and preparations during the two weeks warning. No time must be spared unless one wished for the monsoon to devour them.
Men sprinkled un-birthing elixir among the plants and fields as women dismantled the homes of mud and planted their doors of ash. Children kissed their rocks goodbye and returned to the land.
As garments unravelled and stone sheep returned to bone and flesh, the winds of the monsoon would sound in the deep-hearted men and the Bones of the Lover of the Fire Bird entered into the sky. With their last look at their rumbling husbands, the women entered the rivers.
The men stood in the barrenness of their undoing and boomed. The longer they stood, the longer they rumbled. The leader of all men fell into the monsoon first, as all leaders tend to do. As the followers of all men, the men did their duty and entered into monsoon.
With the men gone, and the rumbling wind everywhere, the sheep shivered and the doors shook as the children started quaking. The leader of all children did as a leader did and the Earth broke by his power. The child had entered monsoon. Children are all leader and all followers, and so the Earth was torn as they entered into monsoon.
The Earth dampened and the sky fell as the leader of all women washed away the life. The water rose and all sheep were lost and all doors floated like the forests from the olden days. The followers of all women did as followers do and drowned all life.
The Bones of the Lover of the Fire Bird shimmered n a briefest moment, but then the Fire Bird came upon the horizon. She caught just the glimpse of his bone-tail and her white flame ended monsoon.

---

This was written a while ago, in the summer. It was in the first week of school. Must have been. I remember myself freaking out that I needed to sleep, but I could not and so I knew I would be tired the next day. It was around 3am and I was half asleep. Was laying there in bed and went into one of those "I'm perfectly aware of this dream, yet I am asleep" type dreams. It all started with this people, in tunics or weird tribal-esque clothing, in this terribly barren wasteland. Or rather, "not lush". The houses were of mud and there were sparse fields of plants in the dirt (not sand, a sort of dirt) and door-trees (rather, doors stuck in the ground as though a tree) and a single river that was behind the village. The sun was a giant fire bird, rather like a phoenix. There was positively nothing to do, it seemed.

So I woke up. I snatched up a pen and sketched this down (in a rather untidy and sleepy fashion). I thought that if the sun was a giant fire bird, than she must be chasing something. And so I thought "bones". The moon was her dead lover. Decomposed to nothing but silver-white bones. And due to a spell, she must chase them forever (all she wishes to do is to breath life back into them, but a cruel witch or god placed a curse so for her to never be able to reach them).

And so what IS the monsoon? I do not know. I am not sure if I truly wish to know. It seems as though that it is night. I suppose it could be dreams or possibly it is just what it is: a storm. I like the thought of it to be the people entering dreamland, though. If you think about it, it makes it lose its beauty and illusions. It is better off as a "monsoon". ((On the contrary, I do not know why that popped into my mind in the first place. Monsoon is such a weird thing to think of.))

I had a lot of fun with this story, I must say. It is so random and weird. I remember, after writing it, looking over it quickly and not understanding one bit as to why I wrote it. I never thought about it, really. It was just written down. One of those little special pieces given from the gods, I suppose.