It was raining all day when I wrote this. I wrote it at 10pm around the begining of June. Procrastination makes perfect.
It was everywhere. He couldn't escape it. Even as he took cover under a shop doorway with awning, it plunked in an arrhythmic pattern on the canvas above. Streams trickled off the corners, making a constant splattering noise that seemed to always be right next to him. They seemed to defy gravity as some flowed on support bars for the awning, leading right into the center of his shelter and dripping, cold, wet and uncomfortable, onto his face, hair and shoulders. The little droplets rolling off his jacket dulled the color of the red, making it match the surroundings of the shop: dreary, blurred and gray.
The sound was everywhere. The smallest trickle running through shaded cracks in the pavement; the light, repeated, bouncing plink it made when it hit the leaves of trees; the steady river bubbling out from gutters into the streets; the constant showering and splashing of what poured from the dark above.
It was as though he was standing in a circle of thin waterfalls, but there was no end to the drops that pelted his body mercilessly. They had already gotten the best of him as he sprinted for cover, soaking the clothing that was meant to keep him comforted. The air that surrounded him was a bitter and moist cold and it soaked into his clothes. Replacing his warm protection, it covered him with a chilling, shivering, icy surrounding. The wind swirled and pressed to his exposed face and ears, stealing what warmth they barely had.
He looked down at the dark, wet ground. This downpour had stolen his warmth and hope and left him with feelings of gloom and gray. The cold continued to hang in an impenetrable fog around him, as though he was being given an embrace by the wind and mist. He sighed; seeing his own breath steadily leaving him. He felt his returning breath gripping his chest with a harsh freshness as the bitterly cold air around him entered his lungs.
He found himself staring at the brightest patch of color; the tall, battered tree that stood in the middle of the shops. The countless leaves flailed against the wind. The dark wood was rough but stood strong against the gale. Every time a gust blew into the tree, the branches swayed, the leaves whipped and danced, the mix of green moving and twirling in a cloud. The tree thrived off rain like this. It was willing to withstand the storm to receive its life from the water.
He stared at the tree, smiling. He peeked his head out from under the awning and looked up at the dark clouds, surveying the weather. He stood back and took a deep breath. He had somewhere to be, and this rain wasn't going to stop him from getting there. He had recovered some of his warmth and hope. Besides, he convinced himself, it's not so bad out there anymore. I can tough out a little sprinkle.
Edward dashed out of the protective doorway and ran into the rain.
507 words. Short shorty short. Tempted to make a refrence to Ed's height, but eh. I'm tired. XD This was inspirational deep poem-y whatsits.
Review because I said so.