Prompt writing: Rain
Title/Prompt: Rain
Genre: Romance?
Warnings: I have not written a single creative word in months. Beware of run-on sentences and general awkwardness.
Summary: CWC prompt "rain". What came to mind then was a dreary day in London with a writer and a red umbrella.
It's a gloomy morning.
Pale grey clouds hide the sky, roll and tumble slowly, weep softly. Their tears slap quietly against the window, in sync with the gentle tapping of a man's pen against his desk.
He is staring out from behind the glass, elbows on the table, face resting on his palm. He looks down upon the passerby from his second-story room, watches with heavy half-lidded eyes. Beside him is an unread newspaper (something about the Yard on the front page), an empty cup of what used to be tea, and several carelessly scattered sheets of paper. They seem to be covered in scrawling handwriting and messy sketches of portraits and still-lifes and figures and the like.
The slumped man is beginning to nod off when he spots a splash of color amidst the dreary muted greys outside. He blinks hard, carries his back ramrod-straight and sees that yes, yes it is the red umbrella he has been waiting for to walk by.
A change seems to come over him then -- a smile lights up his previously emotionless face as he jumps out of his chair, throws on a brown jacket. He strides over to the other side of the room (with a slight bounce to his step), stopping only to pluck a rose from a vase before walking out the door.
The day suddenly seems a little brighter.
Genre: Romance?
Warnings: I have not written a single creative word in months. Beware of run-on sentences and general awkwardness.
Summary: CWC prompt "rain". What came to mind then was a dreary day in London with a writer and a red umbrella.
It's a gloomy morning.
Pale grey clouds hide the sky, roll and tumble slowly, weep softly. Their tears slap quietly against the window, in sync with the gentle tapping of a man's pen against his desk.
He is staring out from behind the glass, elbows on the table, face resting on his palm. He looks down upon the passerby from his second-story room, watches with heavy half-lidded eyes. Beside him is an unread newspaper (something about the Yard on the front page), an empty cup of what used to be tea, and several carelessly scattered sheets of paper. They seem to be covered in scrawling handwriting and messy sketches of portraits and still-lifes and figures and the like.
The slumped man is beginning to nod off when he spots a splash of color amidst the dreary muted greys outside. He blinks hard, carries his back ramrod-straight and sees that yes, yes it is the red umbrella he has been waiting for to walk by.
A change seems to come over him then -- a smile lights up his previously emotionless face as he jumps out of his chair, throws on a brown jacket. He strides over to the other side of the room (with a slight bounce to his step), stopping only to pluck a rose from a vase before walking out the door.
The day suddenly seems a little brighter.