by Olive Pea
A short story inspired by the rainy weather of February.
The cold, gray sky served as a blotchy canvas for the slightly quivering trees, who were reaching up towards the weeping stains that were clouds, as if to comfort them. The joyous chattering of the birds was quite inappropriate and harshly contrasted to the solemn landscape.
The smell of rain filled me with a sort of sadness; the kind that makes you yearn for travel and adventure, and causes your imagination to paint bright colors onto that dreary, gray sky.
As I stood there on the icy cement, the usually bright blades of grass drooped down as if the heavy burden of sorrow weighed upon their backs; the piles of wood slept as though they would continue to do so for a hundred years, while the birds hopped about and inside them. Even the garden tools sat there, so still and silent, seemed to pass the time in a bored manner waiting to be used.
The Lighthouse 