Sprinkles. The frustrated drops of rain that won’t rain gently land on his bare forearm, almost unnoticeable. Smells. Like a downpour, but the scent and the few drops dry up before anyone notices. 

Grassfires scorch the state. It refuses to rain.

The weatherman avoids going out in public, yet the studio urges him to be optimistic, hopeful when talking about the chance for rain. When his wife leaves him, complaining about his positive attitude, he offers himself to the rain gods, even apologizes for the lack of rain in his suicide note. 

The studio quickly promotes the weekend-weatherman. He simply moves away after waiting on rain for six more months. He said he couldn’t take it anymore.


Image courtesy of: Google Clip Art



Published in: on August 29, 2006 at 2:39 am  Comments Off on