Somewhere beyond Volumes and between the Lines of Blurry, was a town where it rained words. It fell as such because the people there couldn't live without the poetic flow of prose.
When the air was sticky and the clouds were low, the nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs would pour into the world (and sometimes the storm was so fierce that conjunctions and articles came pummeling down the gutters too!). The words would seep into the ground where the trees and flowers eagerly slurped the words and they bloomed their own stories.
Thunder boomed with onomatopoeia and lightning flashed across the sky like a dashing smile. The rain would pound down and beat across the town in iambic pentameter. During the hard, heavy spring storms, the beat slammed like poetry and syllables thumped like haikus.
Some people would carry umbrellas and groan when inky clouds billowed in, but they were usually the adults with too many words rattling around in their head anyway. The children--young and impressionable--would jump into personified puddles and decorate their clothes with a spattering of sentences. Word play tripped over the tongues of their shoes.
After a good rain--when the world sighed heavily with imagery--children could be found with nets, skipping over the stones by the creek, waiting to catch the poets who gulped down the punctuation floating across the air and licking away the glistening adjectives that pooled in crevices of the rocks.
Once in a while you'd catch an adult at the bus stop, as the sun began to melt through the clouds, mouthing the words the raindrops formed on park benches. And the sunshine, not always the enemy, would dry out the raindrops--or shall we call them worddrops?--leaving the slightest hint of what once was. An acrostic memory would flutter past the adult then, reminding them of the days when sonnets were king, and purposely step in a nearby puddle, leaving a trail of alliteration; a bookmark in their childhood.
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