Send me a word and my muse will reveal a memory that has to do with it.
He had always loved storms. The rain coming down hard, splattering against the glass of the windows, a steady rhythm that filled the silence of the cabin. The crack of lightning, the growl of thunder.
He loved to make his characters run through storms. Some had met the end of their journey in them, electricity running through their bodies and leaving them with a stopped heart and beautiful burns across their bodies.
He himself would never go out in one. Not when he knew they were going to happen. He would rather sit next to a window, look outside. Usually, he wouldn’t be able to make anything out. There would be so much rain thundering against the glass, that it was the only thing he could see.
He’d close his eyes then, lean his head against the cool glass, and listen to the rain, until he eventually fell asleep.
emptynarration 