Shielding his eyes with his hand, he glanced up at the sky. Still no trace of clouds. The raging sun was beating down. Sweat beads dotted his dark temples, his throat was parched, much like the arid land he was standing on. The drought left deep cracks in the soil.
“How am I supposed to grow anything here,” he mumbled peering around the dry desolate field.
A teardrop escaped from his misty eyes. The barren ground quickly absorbed it. Despaired, he burst into tears.
A sudden rumble shook him and he looked up and smiled.
The first drops spattered down.
It may look like the story has zero connection with the picture, but right after seeing the lush green potted plants, my mind conjured up images of rain and then it drifted towards the plight of farmers (which I read about in newspapers almost every day). I cannot explain why that happened but I guess my subconscious wanted me to write this.
Written for Friday Fictioneers
PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio
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