MMWUC: Responsibility to Dream

I took off last week from blogging. I was told, "Don't do that again?" I didn't know that my simple little reminder for everyone to start writing was influencing anyone. So, let's get back to basics. The worst words written are better than the best words stuck in your head. So write. Open the file now. Just write.

There was a man from Nantucket. No. The man from Nantucket wore his windbreaker like a shield against the latest Nor'easter. Ineffective. Wind pelted him like small stones; daggers of cold sliced threw the smallest opening; rain oozed through the same openings like evil creeping out of a cemetery towards unsuspecting young lovers. He sidled up to the oak tree, broad from two hundred years growth and stubby from long winters, short summers, and a constant on-shore breeze. The barren branches hung heavy to one side like a bad Trump over comb, but at least the near hurricane-force wind gusts didn't slap debris against him. The rain still came; the cold still bit. Soon,  however, the electricity went out and the small houses disappeared into the dark forming ill-defined shadows. King smiled. Another story blossomed in his head.