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it rained, it poured. the weather had been like that in derry, maine for weeks now.children splash around in muddy puddles, a boy by the name of bill denbrough watches, hopelessly.
he's mahogany-haired, pale-skinned, doe-eyed. fourteen. scared to death.
gory grey clouds fill the silver-colored sky, the sun does not even peek at the world. neither does bill.
he sits at the window, and begins to write, once again, as he does every day. the words peel off of his pen, ink flows across the page, as a graceful robin floating and fluttering with the wind. it brings him pure joy.
