Wicked Rain (part 1 post 1)

Joanna woke to the clock tick, ticking. She almost always did. Like most clocks go tick tock, no. Tick, tick, tick. She hated that clock.
She stared hard at the fan, spin spinning. Did she turn it on? She draped a blanket over her shoulders and stumbled outside, then walked back inside. And turned off her fan.
It was pitch black, jet black, inky black, almost. Like watercolor black. She couldn't see her shadow, but Joanna swore she saw some passing by.
She walked down the hall, never failing to trip on her dog, who was lying in the middle of the hallway, of course. The watercolor black cast an eerie light on her dog, Calipso. She opened the blinds to stop the watercolor black.
Rain, always always. Wicked rain. It was gray outside, faded grey, not like a sidewalk but more like a fog. So the watercolor black turned into a fog black. She started hot water boiling and waited. Did she turn the stove on? She shook it off, and sat down on the floor. The only sound being the wheeeeee of the water, and the tick, tick, tick down the hall.
And of course, that wicked rain.

Inspiration on the Windowsill

Inspiration on the windowsill,
strength on my desk.
Grace on my dressing drawers,
if you know me best.
Heartache on my closet doors,
tears on my bed.
Imagination on my floors,
enough being said.
Courage on my bedside table,
Knowledge on my shelves.
If you wish to learn more about me,
first learn about yourselves.