ISN Anchor Desk - Original Short Stories

The mist in the cool night air tickled his nose, causing the young man to look up at the sky, in search of rain clouds.

It had been many seasons since the rain fell in amounts told in stories of old. Now, even two centimeters was cause for celebration.

There were storm clouds present tonight, he realized. The blue sky faded to the dark grey of his grandfather’s beard, swirling about in a plethora of shapes and sizes.

A drop of water fell on the youth’s bare forehead, followed closely by a second, and then a third.

The floodgates opened. The gods were answering prayers long forgotten.

The rain fell about his feet, turning the dust and dirt into a liquidy substance seen only near rivers in far away lands - mud.

The youth turned around, his face and hair now drenched, and raced inside to rouse his grandfather.

"Grant’ya! Grant’ya!" he called. "Rain! The gods have answered our prayers!"

The old man had an air of disbelief around him, but seeming his ward dripping the sweet nectar on the faded carpet, he stood and walked outside.

A tidal wave swept him away.

That’s how he felt, anyway. He’d not seen so much water since ... well, since he was his grandson’s age. He could imagine the crops growing again ... the fish returning ... even a thunderstorm once in awhile.

He fell to his knees, crying, letting out his thanks in sobs of joy.

And so it was, for every day of the youth’s long life, it rained at that exact time, and the land returned to the paradise lost so long ago.