Cometh the Rain (Part 2)

img-alternative-textI had thought nobody capable of such a relentless barrage of inspiration. He cajoled and reaffirmed, appraised and approved, all us little people grateful for his attentions. In time, we came to demand his praise as if he was some minor deity on an undeniable upward curve to God, who in his so doing would drag us with him to incredible new heights. All the while, the sun smiled down. All the while, it burnt us.
He showed us his blueprints written in elegant script and full of every conceivable detail. We smiled and cheered; I even bought him a drink. Not one of us understood them. Not one of us had a clue as to what the sum of the whole would accomplish. Yet our messiah was a humble man and claimed he did it all for mankind’s betterment, that one day we’d sit by new rivers together and raise a toast to nimbus skies. Who could argue with that kind of humility?
I was sold. We were sold. Never once did we question him.
To Be Continued…

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Cometh the Rain (Part 1)

The sun hung like a golden bauble decorating a cerulean sky. Basking in the pleasures of its gleaming self, the celestial body shone and shone and shone regardless of our wishes, as if predicting what we below desired rather than asking the question. A constant Christmas, our personal star, our gift, blazed above with the beaming smile of a demented patron, and all we could do was accept its citrine self. We had no choice. Who could blot out the sun?At the sixth month of relentless sunshine, a certain someone, who for now shall remain nameless, made the cataclysmic decision to correct God’s supposed slight. He would reinstate the clouds and with it that precious resource the rain. Life would return to its blissful ways, Eden reborn. His message, more idealistic dream than practical proposal, inspired others to aid him in his task. I’m ashamed to say I was one of them even if my heart was not in it. “Cometh the rain,” he’d said. “Cometh the man.” Who knew what it meant if it meant anything at all? In truth, who cared?To Be Continued…

After The Rain


The slanted sun made cauldrons of the chimney pots, the terrace's brick facades still black in the shadows. Millions of tiny raindrops hung from every available angle dotting my path with sparkling jewels, the dyke again a perfect stream. Every green leaf was a perfect green, every branch a liquid ochre. It might only have been a walk around the block, a perambulation to clear my head, but there was never a better time than after the rain.

Author's Note: We've just had a storm which lasted an hour. As soon as it finished, I was straight out. Perfect!

The image is from Pixabay because I forgot my phone. D'oh!

50 Word Stories: In a Damp Distraction

Life chafed, rubbed at the edges and wore away, arid like scalding sheets of sandpaper left out in the sun then applied to aching joints. Such was desert life where even the lizards wore sunglasses and the Bedouin caravans strapped air conditioners to each camel. Then, it rained. Ah, bliss!