I'd like to play, but don't know what to do with what you've inspired. Her 'tis:
30 minute challenge #183: It was raining. 10:35
It was raining. Rivulets hurried down the thick, cold glass in random streams, each teardrop blazing its own unique trail. She leaned her forehead against the windowpane and let her focus go fuzzy, let the teartrails blur into crystalline silver, trying not to form coherent thought.
It wasn’t working. The insistent clamor of recent memory kept demanding her attention, reminding her of her faults, her weaknesses, her losses, her inadequacies. The voices in her head were derisive and snarling. They made the voice they were echoing sound positively gentle by comparison.
She placed a hand on the glass and watched the condensation form around the warmth of her fingertips. It was no comfort.
She felt the prickle of her own tears start again at the back of her throat and slurped in the thick moisture of her misery, brushing an angry hand across her raw upper lip.
And a movement beyond the glass caught her eye. She refocused out into the sodden garden, curiosity battling for her attention. Dammit, she couldn’t help it.
At first, her mind refused to process the images trickling into her brain into anything coherent. The now-fogged glass and the pelting rain obstructed a clear vision of the riot of wet blossoms and water-logged leaves that made up the secret little world between her window and the high iron fence that marked the edge of the woods. But something was moving out there, something ignoring the desolate rain.
She sat up, scrubbing her drained eyes with the back of one hand and squinting into the gloom. Her senses were suddenly on alert, and her dry-throated swallow now had little to do with grief or regret. A sudden crack of lightning, thunderless but astonishing, lit the garden for a frozen instant.
And she saw him. And he was watching her. And it was raining.
30 minute challenge #183: It was raining.
10:35
It was raining. Rivulets hurried down the thick, cold glass in random streams, each teardrop blazing its own unique trail. She leaned her forehead against the windowpane and let her focus go fuzzy, let the teartrails blur into crystalline silver, trying not to form coherent thought.
It wasn’t working. The insistent clamor of recent memory kept demanding her attention, reminding her of her faults, her weaknesses, her losses, her inadequacies. The voices in her head were derisive and snarling. They made the voice they were echoing sound positively gentle by comparison.
She placed a hand on the glass and watched the condensation form around the warmth of her fingertips. It was no comfort.
She felt the prickle of her own tears start again at the back of her throat and slurped in the thick moisture of her misery, brushing an angry hand across her raw upper lip.
And a movement beyond the glass caught her eye. She refocused out into the sodden garden, curiosity battling for her attention. Dammit, she couldn’t help it.
At first, her mind refused to process the images trickling into her brain into anything coherent. The now-fogged glass and the pelting rain obstructed a clear vision of the riot of wet blossoms and water-logged leaves that made up the secret little world between her window and the high iron fence that marked the edge of the woods. But something was moving out there, something ignoring the desolate rain.
She sat up, scrubbing her drained eyes with the back of one hand and squinting into the gloom. Her senses were suddenly on alert, and her dry-throated swallow now had little to do with grief or regret. A sudden crack of lightning, thunderless but astonishing, lit the garden for a frozen instant.
And she saw him. And he was watching her. And it was raining.
10:55
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