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When Blessings Fall.

A Short Story.

By Deborah RobinsonPublished 3 years ago 5 min read
4
When Blessings Fall.
Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash

I scratched at the dusty earth, hoping at least some of the little plants would survive this year. The ground had been stripped of any goodness long ago. Intensive farming and poor environmental practises had left this generation with barren soil, failed crops and not enough to eat. Global warming, again, caused by previous generations, meant for us, there were months without rain, and then a few weeks of floods and storms. Growing food was tough: plants were either burnt, or washed away. We were desperately replanting forests and woodlands, but the trees were young, and couldn't undo the damage or prevent the flooding, yet.

With farmland overused and needing to recuperate, gardens, allotments and any green areas in cities were being farmed and used to produce food for an increasingly hungry generation. Lab grown food was fine, but it was bland, and was really only produced as emergency relief. Besides, it was rationed, and so everyone was now trying to grow something at home to supplement the handouts. The only good thing out of this mess, was that humans had finally realised that the meat industry had contributed to the damage, and now most people ate plant based food, lab-grown 'meat' and eggs from backyard chickens.

Over the years, my little garden had allowed me to enjoy the sweetest peas, iron rich kale, strawberries, apples, and many other seasonal delights, but this year had been hard. Plant food was hard to get, and I was running out of my homemade nettle feed. Plus, it had been drier than ever this year. My water barrels were depressingly low.

I finished planting the row of young broad beans, and patted cardboard around the roots, hoping it would keep moisture in, and if it did rain, that the thin soil wouldn't wash away. A light sprinkling of water was all I could afford them now. I said a silent prayer over the young plants, hoping they would at least survive long enough to provide a handful of beans.

I went inside, heading down to the cellar to check on my mushrooms. I had been quite successful with these, and I enjoyed quite a variety, including them in almost everything I cooked! My favourites were the chanterelles.

I was just making my way upstairs again, when I heard a sound:

''Hello? Kiera? Are you home?''

It was Blake, the guy from next door. He also lived alone. Most of us did. It was too hard to have a relationship in these times. It was less complicated to be selfish. But a surge in mental health issues, and a growing dependence on medication, meant that people largely avoided each other. there was so much paranoia and distrust out there.

''Hi, Blake. Yeah, I was just checking on my fungi,'' I snorted, uncomfortably as I leaned a hip against the kitchen counter.

''Erm, I was just wondering if you had any flour I could borrow? I'll pay it back!'' Blake's eyes dropped to the floor. He was ashamed. I was embarrassed.

''Oh! Yeah, sure. No problem.'' I crouched down to search through the cupboard, finding a small amount in a paper bag.

''Is this ok? I don't have much. I'm sorry. But you should get a few scones or something out of it.''

''Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Kiera. I'll pay you back.''

And with that, Blake scooted nervously out my back door, and fence vaulted over the low wall.

I flicked on the kettle to make myself some tea. My peripheral vision sensed something wasn't right. I swore there was an apple left in the bowl this morning. I hadn't eaten it, and the only person who'd been here was Blake. I guess he really needed that apple. It was so depressing to think that my neighbour felt the need to steal from me.

*************************************************************

That night, I heard steady rain quietly fall against the world outside. There were a few flickers of purple lightning, but no thunder. There was no wind, either, just the quiet whispering sounds of tiny raindrops kissing the arid soil; washing the streets; blessing the trees.

I got out of bed, and in my short pyjamas, I crept to the front door of my house. I wanted to feel this nightime blessing on my skin. We only ever got storms and floods. This was different.

The orange glow of the streetlight danced in the moisture on the ground, and tiny insects did their waltz back and forward, forward and back towards the electric light. I looked up, and I could see people all coming out of their front doors, lifting their eyes in amazement to the giving skies. People closed their eyes, and let the gentle rain baptise their careworn faces. All were whispering, smiling. Some lifted hands in prayers of thanks. Some cried.

A man across the street began to clap, and in true human nature, we all began clapping. And laughing. We all laughed and clapped.

The rain eased off after an hour, and one-by-one people went back into their houses.

I went and lay on my bed, still slightly damp from the summer rain, and I drifted into a peaceful sleep, dreaming of laughter and smiling faces.

************************************************************

In the morning, I went outside with my tea, as usual to see what had survived in my garden. The air smelt slightly dusty, but fresher. I checked my water barrels, and I was relieved to see they were half-full. There was hope for my little veggies!

I sat at the metal patio table and surveyed my small plot. Something yellow caught my eye. It was a delicate marigold flower. I remember planting those last year in a long window box, hoping to get enough rain to keep them alive for a while. I thought they had died from neglect and a lack of water a few weeks ago. I couldn't afford to keep them watered when I had crops to tend first. Last night's rain must have nourished the half dessicated plant, and it was determined to live: like desert flowers behave, I supposed. It truly was a little sign of strength and hope.

I sat there, sipping my tea, smiling and planning my day.

Short Story
4

About the Creator

Deborah Robinson

I'm new to the 'writing for real' scene. Previously, I've kept my poetry and writing under wraps in a fancy notebook, but now I've decided to give it a proper go!

I hope you enjoy my work.

Thanks, Deborah.

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