It had been raining all day. Fritz hated the dingy flannel clouds that hung upon the forlorn pine trees; he hated the squishy gray sand and the dimpled cheek of gray sea water that lay at the foot of the Slippery hill. He hated the prostrate sand grass and dripping birch leaves, for they held him imprisoned in the cottage, and he wanted to walk and swim and race with the wind. He wanted to write, but he couldn't write on a day like this. His inspiration was as bogged down as the muddy sand. There was no wind today, only a sullen breath of wet air and Fritz kicked the dripping porch glide: hard with his foot as he stood on the wet porch watching that which he hated.
Kessler, Mary Alice
"It Rained Today,"
Manuscripts: Vol. 12
, Article 12.
Available at: http://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol12/iss4/12