Trickling storm

“Water, water everywhere, we are gonna get went.”

“When it rains it pours.”

“It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring. He went to bed and struck his head and couldn’t get up in the morning.

The chant continued.

There was a pool on the floor, it was the color of poppies.

The old man, well he wasn’t snoring but he was certainly stuck in the bed, a hole in the middle of his head, perfect size for planting seeds.

And the torrent of disjointed thoughts ceased. For now…. just like the rain.

Copyright Rowen Curtin

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Written for Friday fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff. Please click on this link to visit her page. And click on this link to join the fun.