Writing while it rains

I’m laying on my soft feather bed in a cabin perched on a mountain, reading through a Louis L’Amour novel and the words blur into a dream. She’s screaming because he’s kidnapped her and I can’t run fast enough to rescue her.

FLAP! The book fell from my extended left hand onto the cabin floor and I wake to hear the kettle’s whistle screaming. Rolling out of bed, I pull it off the hot log-burning stove and pour the steaming water into a mug with an herb tea bag. A thunder cloud shatters the silence of this fall day’s afternoon. Reaching for my pencil and dog-eared notebook, I unlatch the door and walk out onto the front porch. Rain, she makes a trip-trap-trip-trap whisper on the tin roof and the cool breeze tickles goosebumps across my arms. I’ve now sat down in the old rocking chair and proceeded to use a rusted pocket knife to sharpen the pencil. The rain has begun to pour and the lightning shoots between clouds. My naked feet rest gently on top of the wet grass blades, toes wriggling. The classical music of an orchestra starts to blossom within my rainbow-filled thoughts. The pencil enchantedly begins to dance over the faded cream paper and the rest is a happy dream.

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