The rainstorm

Flamendor

He sat looking out of the window of his room, stories raging through his mind that should have been told. Stories about mages, beautiful women with strong personalities fighting wars and not relying on their looks to get on in a man’s world.
The rain gushing off the roof didn’t dampen his spirit. Three years ago when he nearly choked to death, one of the things he realized he would miss would be the sound of rain. Since then he had learned to value the smaller things in life, that is why the lack of sales for his writing no longer concerned him, much to the confusion of those who “claimed” to know him. Those who had taken the time to get to know him knew he never cared about the money from his sales. To him, a sale was a sign of his writing being appreciated.

He accepted that ill-health had deprived him of his wish to travel to Israel. But he still had his mind and the ability to go places in his thoughts – sometimes he wished he didn’t – as he thought he had a warped mind.

Some people claimed not writing is an excuse for being lazy. Those he knew, knew this to be far from the truth, as he had too many stories to write, but he wondered if anyone ever read any of them – that is why he wrote so little these days

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