a rainy day - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Each raindrop is a kaleidoscope, if we could only see more closely. I wonder as I walk how it would be to stop time, to suspend this watery gift and peek through each one. Perhaps it would be fun to sit inside those raindrops and take that gravity propelled ride to the earth, as I imagine it I feel my inner self laughing - a little at the crazy daydream and a little at my own silliness. I see the rain beads upon the cars, upon each leaf and washing my outstretched fingers. Soon they will pull together, forming the puddles, opening up a whole new avenue of rain-related fun. Perhaps it isn't normal to love a rainy day so much, but who cares about normal anyway? I'm pretty sure "normal" is a made up thing.
It was still early when the clouds gave of their rain to the grass and trees, when the road became alive with more splashes than my eyes could appreciate. Yet together they brought such a soothing sound, a natural melody every bit as beautiful as a mother's soulful hum. I felt each splash that touched my skin, watched my cardigan become a deeper, more rocky hue. It was as if earlier the street had been a matt photograph, only to be washed as glossy as any magazine page.
As I uncover my eyes from underneath the covers, I heard the gentle tapping of raindrops against my bedroom window. These were my favourite kind of days were I didn't have to feel bad about not leaving my house. I get up and rub my knuckles onto my eyes. I make myself a hot chocolate with whipped cream and small glittery marshmallows. I take a book with me upstairs and I plop myself down on the couch right underneath my window. Seeing the drops trickle down my window brought a sense of calmness within me. This was the time I could be alone and be myself. I read away and let every moment sink in as it was not going to last forever.
With eyes at rest in the way of dreams, I hear the quenching rain. The percussion of the given water varies according to the surface it wets. There is the drums that are windows, the cymbals that are the concrete floor, and the soft, soft maracas that are the music of the grass. The triangles are the puddles, a high note to pick up the mood, to sing of the joy of the plants upon such a day.
The water droplets fall like they simply cannot think of anything better to do. There is a laziness about them, as if they can barely be bothered to conform to the will of gravity. When I hold my bare arm out of the cabin window the droplets splatter on my outstretched fingers made all the dryer by reading in front of the fireplace. They are large and soft, not like the mean driving rain of back home at all. I tilt my fingers upwards and watch the remnants of the drops run downwards like tiny rivers. If this is the way rainy days are here I could get used to it real fast; even the sound on the cedar roof is comforting. With a half smile I retreat leaving the window open, this way I can hear the steady drumming all the louder while I turn age worn pages of long forgotten books.
Here comes the rain, little darlin,' desalinated by nature's own hand and given freely. Here comes the water we need for every part of life we cherish and hold sacred. For it is from the clouds as much as the sunshine that life comes forth, the cozy days of reflection to add to the dancing in warm rays. It deepens every hue, brings a boldness to scenes so familiar, a nuance that is so refreshing to the eye.
On the sidewalk ahead the uneven slabs have a rainbow sheen - all that is left of a kids game of hopscotch. The outline is still there, a ghostly shadow of what it was before the heavy rains that pounded the city last night. Above the sky is dominated by tumbling greys, smoky and silver. My eyes stay on my feet across the washed out game and my muscles yearn to hop, to skip. Not today through, today is a day for seriousness, I owe her that much.
She loved rain. Everything about rain. The whispering hum as sheets of precipitation plummeted to the water-forsaken ground, the often unanticipated flashes of lightning or the rolls of ominous thunder. She loved it all. Those facts were what truly created, in her opinion, a perfect rainy atmosphere.
Have you heard the rain this morning? It’s crazy! Those drops are bigger than prairie hailstones and coming down just as hard. I’ll just turn the dishwasher off here so you can listen to it better. It’s almost as if the drops are striking your eardrums, right? I actually like it, I find it soothing. Anyhow, it’s just you, me and the dirty breakfast dishes. The kids are at school already, you should have seen them go all togged up in rain jackets and umbrellas. I was going to give them rides but the school is just so close and the traffic so bad in the mornings that it’s actually quicker to walk. I do hope their feet stayed dry, look at that water on the street. Come over to the window, you’ll see it way better. It’s a shallow river over the tarmac, we get that so much. Did I say it’s a temperate rainforest here? Oh, I did? Well, the kids do say I repeat myself a lot, maybe they’re right after all!
Found in Are you awake yet? - first draft, authored by .
My bicycle wheels turn over the wet track, my speed bringing the cold rain into my face harder than it would were I walking. My jacket gave up on keeping my body dry a while ago and now my trunk is as wet as my legs. On a rainy day like this there's just no point in heavy clothes, the only thing that'll keep me warm is my own movement, the pumping of my legs against the pedals. Head down, press on, thinking of the warmth at the other end. There's a part of me that's jealous of the car drivers, safe behind shatter-proof glass and painted steel. But then I recall my cyclist's mantra, "bikes burn fat and save money, cars burn money and save fat." After that I'm free to enjoy the rain, its part of life after all.
I'm the first person in the office early this morning. The diffused grey light of a darkening sky pushes light just far enough into the corners of the building to see my way to my desk without turning anything on. There's no air conditioning hum, no chatter of colleagues, no flickering fluorescent lights. I sit down slowly, quietly thrilled at the novelty of being alone, absorbing the quiet, the empty spaces, watching the birds through the eastern facing windows in the garden outside, oblivious to me. It starts to rain hesitantly and politely. Comforting rain. inside by the fireplace rain, under the blankets rain. My shoulders relax and my mind quietens and I sink deeper into my chair. I sit and listen to the rain grow heavier and more confident until Im sure that this is the only thing I should be doing with the rest of the day.
The rain has fallen steadily without let up since before I woke. Outside the summer flowers and leaves droop under the weight of the droplets. We've had so much heat lately that I'd almost forgotten this feeling, the cool freshness in the breeze. Come late autumn I won't be nearly be so impressed with the rain in whatever way it falls; it will be as ubiquitous as the lousy sit-coms and weight-loss advertisements. But for August it's such a novelty that I find myself sitting on the front porch, coffee in hand, watching the drips as they fall from beneath the guttering. Simply being outside without the need for sunglasses, taking in the softened hues with my naked eyes, and listening to the drumming is a treat. Something about this rain has me more relaxed than I've been in days and I'm in no hurry for the clouds to vanish, returning us to the dry heat that is so customary at this time of year.
Outside was an unexpected gift of rain. The wet season didn't generally start for another fortnight but the skies don't lie. It wasn't a mean rain either, the type that got everyone wet without filling the rain barrels. It was the type that got the streams running with pristine water from the mountains. Rose stood on the doorstep, her arms folded around herself in the best hug she could have without Joe being home. After such a dry summer it was all she could do to stop herself from dancing barefoot outside while the drops plastered her hair to her face.
The rain bore down mercilessly upon the heart of the city, pounding on the rooftops and turning the cobbled streets of the Downtown District into a warren of slick stones and muddy waters.
Located only a stone’s throw from the high stone walls of the Gaol, the old wooden tavern known as the Guardhouse is easy to find. The warm light from its windows and the trailing smoke from its chimney serve as beacons of refuge and comfort to those caught out in the storm.
The temperature had dropped noticeably in the past few days, but the onset of rain and a northern wind had made it icy. With no break in the greyness above the chance of a let up was slim to zero. It was going to be a rainy day and no amount of pleading with the gods was going to change that.
The umbrella snapped closed, releasing a gravity defying plume of small droplets. Tara pulled down her hood and shook her hair to gain some life back into her flattened locks.
Mac stirs behind his closed eyelids, his mind ceasing dream-mode to bring him back to wakefulness. At first he's slightly confused; he hears the fan he's been cooling himself with this long dry summer, yet he knows he didn't turn it on before bed. A slow smile creeps over his face. He doesn't hear the drone of a fan he hears rain falling thickly outside, the beautiful sound passing right through his open window. He rolls to get up as his eyes open and takes himself to see the rainfall, already feeling the soothing coldness of the breeze. There is the scent of wetness, so ever-present in the autumn but so rare for late August. Today will be a day for long pants and an umbrella, a strong black coffee and fried plantain on toast with chilli sauce. A day for enjoying all the things that go with a change in season.
Liam walks in, half drown from the rain. His hair lies inky about his face, hanging in clumps. A half hour by the hearth and it'll be back to deep brown, reflecting the golden firelight. He's all spaghetti-like, as if his bones are part dissolved by the torrent outside...
Darkened gray smudges of wool threateningly surrounded the sky; like a predator would encircle its prey. A startling low rumble rang loud in the cool fall air, the sky roaring with satisfaction. Trickles of liquid hit the ground with as much force as a small child. Hungrily, drizzles turn into canon fires, barricading everything in its way. A sense of cleanliness caresses the atmosphere, washing away all impurities. A dense earthly sweet smell rises from the ground, enveloping everything within its soft embrace. The skies suddenly settle, as if it were comforted, coaxed even. The fluffy smudges don't part completely - although the sun peeks out timidly- and rather look like its preparing for an even more vicious round.
Between the hail and the rain I'm okay where I am. In this warm room, seeing the streaming sunlight that comes regardless of clouds; I'm content to watch the ever changing picture that is the world beyond mine. The newly washed roofs gleam as brightly as mirrors, the blossom tenacious on the branches that dance. It's a rainy day, one for the books, tea mugs and cozy socks.
Rain has always been my calming sound. When I was little my mother would play rain sounds to lull me to sleep.