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Description
I can hear the wind howling outside of my window, each minute followed by a small pause, where there is complete silence, and all you can hear is the sound of the waves crashing on the cliffs, constantly shooting seawater into the sky. My dog is cowering under my bed, my bird letting off the occasional twitter. I pause and put down my novel, adjusting my glasses and pushing my fringe back, a habit of mine. Turning my head I look outside the window, and see the dark line of black covering the horizon. I pull my knees up to my chin, and wait in anticipation for the storm to fully hit.
~
I jerk awake and lose my balance, toppling over on my bed. I must have dozed off whilst watching the rain. I was woken by my window flying open, producing a loud whistling noise, and something else, which I can now identify as the constant thrum of the waves against the cliffs, and the rain pouring into my room, wind, and my window now squeaking in its hinges. I jump off the bed quite clumsily, running to the window and forcing it shut. I lock the latch with a breath of relief, and stand, hands and face pressed against the window, taking in the outside surroundings. The storm has definitely intensified, my window flying open being an example. It may be old, but it's not weak. I stand there for a while, and find myself watching the raindrops race each other on the glass, silently cheering, as I see them join others, combine forces, until finally they reach the bottom, were they pool, and wait for when they flow over the sill, starting yet another journey. I watch one more reach the bottom, and then I turn, and notice the state of my room. There is colored paper everywhere, dotted and starting to fade from getting wet. My diary is on the floor in a puddle of water; my new moneybox is on the ground, one of my many books fallen from the shelf and eagled on the floor. I notice my scarf lying neatly on my bed, blown there in the wind. I sigh, and slowly start returning my room to its previous state. I gather the paper and return it to my desk with my other scrapbooking stationary. I pick up my moneybox, studying it closely for any cracks, and then place it in the crook of my arm as I pick up my book, and look to see if the pages are wet and ruined. To my relief it is fine, and I return it to the shelf along with the moneybox. I then make my bed, pulling up my duna and adjusting the pillows, and wrap my scarf around my neck. Walking to the door, I pick up the soaked diary, take one last look to make sure all is well, and leave the room. Walking into the silent loungeroom, I start the fire; glad I had brung in wood only a few hours before the storm hit. While the fire grows, I find my hairdryer, angle my loungechair slightly towards the window, place the diary in my lap, and start to slowly dry each page.

Description
I can hear the wind howling outside of my window, each minute followed by a small pause, where there is complete silence, and all you can hear is the sound of the waves crashing on the cliffs, constantly shooting seawater into the sky. My dog is cowering under my bed, my bird letting off the occasional twitter. I pause and put down my novel, adjusting my glasses and pushing my fringe back, a habit of mine. Turning my head I look outside the window, and see the dark line of black covering the horizon. I pull my knees up to my chin, and wait in anticipation for the storm to fully hit.
~
I jerk awake and lose my balance, toppling over on my bed. I must have dozed off whilst watching the rain. I was woken by my window flying open, producing a loud whistling noise, and something else, which I can now identify as the constant thrum of the waves against the cliffs, and the rain pouring into my room, wind, and my window now squeaking in its hinges. I jump off the bed quite clumsily, running to the window and forcing it shut. I lock the latch with a breath of relief, and stand, hands and face pressed against the window, taking in the outside surroundings. The storm has definitely intensified, my window flying open being an example. It may be old, but it's not weak. I stand there for a while, and find myself watching the raindrops race each other on the glass, silently cheering, as I see them join others, combine forces, until finally they reach the bottom, were they pool, and wait for when they flow over the sill, starting yet another journey. I watch one more reach the bottom, and then I turn, and notice the state of my room. There is colored paper everywhere, dotted and starting to fade from getting wet. My diary is on the floor in a puddle of water; my new moneybox is on the ground, one of my many books fallen from the shelf and eagled on the floor. I notice my scarf lying neatly on my bed, blown there in the wind. I sigh, and slowly start returning my room to its previous state. I gather the paper and return it to my desk with my other scrapbooking stationary. I pick up my moneybox, studying it closely for any cracks, and then place it in the crook of my arm as I pick up my book, and look to see if the pages are wet and ruined. To my relief it is fine, and I return it to the shelf along with the moneybox. I then make my bed, pulling up my duna and adjusting the pillows, and wrap my scarf around my neck. Walking to the door, I pick up the soaked diary, take one last look to make sure all is well, and leave the room. Walking into the silent loungeroom, I start the fire; glad I had brung in wood only a few hours before the storm hit. While the fire grows, I find my hairdryer, angle my loungechair slightly towards the window, place the diary in my lap, and start to slowly dry each page.