Weather worn, that’s what she was, frayed further from lack of sleep. The relentless rain was a steady march, a bellicose drumbeat that only paused, never stopping long enough for anything to dry out. In the night, if the rain did cease for a time, the change in tempo would awaken her. The drilling streams from the broken gutters, the incessant drip from the trees, ponging off the roof, kept restless rhythms. Should the sun ever shine again she would lie outside and sleep in its quiet, absorbing its warmth and light into the vast reaches of her dreaming.
Carrot Ranch June 29, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about something frayed. It could be fabric, like a flag or garment. It could also be nerves or temper. What is it to be frayed?