Drought

Not a blade of grass

Photo by YODA Adaman on Unsplash

The drought was so bad the riverbed had gone dry, and the parched land lay cracked and lifeless as far as the eye could see. Not a blade of grass, dead or alive, poked up out of the ground.

Earl surveyed the land that had been his home for all of his sixty-eight years. He had run a dairy farm here, raised a family, watched grandchildren play. But the land would no longer support him. He had nothing left to leave his children. He couldn’t even sell the once valuable property.

The cattle were gone, long sold off to farms outside the drought zone. He had thought to purchase more when the drought ended. Three years gone now, and he’d finally bowed to the inevitable. The rain wasn’t coming. His land and that of his neighbors, who had already moved on, was on its way to becoming desert.

Earl had stayed longer than most. Believed, then hoped, then despaired as his savings had dwindled. He turned his back on the dead fields, not shedding a tear. All water, he had learned, was precious, including that within his body. He wouldn’t waste it.

He climbed into the passenger seat of his oldest son’s pickup truck. They held each other’s gaze, neither speaking. What was there left to stay? Gary owned a place up in New York state. Not a farm. Gary worked in one of those fancy computer companies. Maybe Earl would plant a garden. Maybe he’d just sit in the rocker and tell his grandkids stories of the good old days before climate change.

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This microfiction was written as a response to a Reedsy prompt to set a story during a drought. My mind leapt to climate change and the falling waters of Lake Mead and other bodies of water that continue to shrink. The ultimate outcome of their loss, if left unchecked, is the creation of deserts. May we show enough wisdom to act decisively before it’s too late.