Drought
honorable mention for the July 2023 Flash Fiction Contest
In the heat of a dry late August afternoon, a man digs. He’s been digging for hours in the hard soil, giving him only a foot or so of depth for his efforts. This patch of ground on his land is rocky underneath the cracked surface which is now covered with patchy brown weeds. The family well went dry weeks ago in the drought, so it’s no surprise the dirt here is difficult to turn.
As he digs, he separates out the stones he pries up with his shovel. He has no idea how long it’s been since any human has worked this earth; he’s only kept the grass cut when he could. That is, when grass still grew here. A lone drop of sweat has finally collected on the tip of his nose, hesitating for stretched seconds before falling. His work has released some of the last water from his dehydrated body. The air around him is stagnant and oppressive. Not even the slightest breeze to ripple his loose shirt and ease some of the pressure.
He takes a pause to drink from what is his last canteen of precious water, taking only one mouthful before replacing the cap. His body craves the rest now, but he knows he must hold himself back from the temptation if he is to finish his chore. He can’t, however, prevent himself from thinking back to before the drought, when he had the luxury of not having to think about rationing water. How casually he would throw water out if it sat in his glass overnight. Now, after two months without rain, this one canteen is all he has left. Without the cistern he built last year to collect rainwater, he would have been dead a month ago. He couldn’t have known both his well and cistern would dry out on him.
Coming out of his reflection he looks down into his hole. He’s managed another foot deeper. The heat is nearly unbearable, but he has work to finish. He looks to the sky, seeing only blue, no clouds above to block the sun. He bends back to his work, shovelful after shovelful. The rocks are still abundant, slowing his progress until he can pry them free of their holding. Dirt on one side, rocks on the other. He’s worked into a rhythm, mindlessly applying himself to the task.
Pausing for another sip, he looks across his barren field. Some dust is starting to kick up just as he looks. After years on this farm, he doesn’t think much of it, until he feels a momentary relief. Some breeze has come back to offer small comfort to him. Feeling some new vitality, he caps his canteen, and goes back to work, but not before noticing a thin wisp of cloud on the horizon. Four feet deep now, the soil has gotten less rocky, and the soil is not quite as dry. The surface dirt was dust compared to these compressed clumps he’s now getting. The breeze has picked up slightly and he now sees more clouds on the horizon, with the single cloud he saw earlier leading the pack, already having passed over him. His canteen is mostly gone, but he guesses he’s got a couple mouthfuls remaining. The hole is now nearly deep enough.
The sun is just touching the trees at the edge of his land. He begins to give final shape to his afternoon’s work. After throwing out the final shovels of dirt, he climbs out of the hole and grabs his canteen, shaking it to judge the contents. No more than a splash remains, but he finishes it off in one go. No helping it now, he can’t create water from wishes.
As the sun settles further into the horizon and the clouds continue to thicken, he eases one end of the long pine box down into the hole. Doing this by himself is difficult, and despite his efforts of easing the fall, the second end drops in with a muffled thud, wrenching his heart. After a short pause, he begins to shovel dirt back in the hole, trying not to think of the patter of dirt on the wooden lid. Moving the dirt back in goes much faster, and the sound no longer echoes, only sounds of dirt on dirt. Finally, he can begin stacking the rocks into a marker. He finishes the cairn, taking great to best assure a sturdy pile.
Standing and looking to the sky again, he notices the brilliant reds, deep purples, and bright oranges of the fading sunset reflecting off the sheeted clouds rolling in. “If only you were here to see this sunset, honey. I know you loved to watch them as the kids played.” he croaks. He stands looking at the freshly disturbed earth in front of him, and the neat pillar of rocks at the end opposite him. He’s so lost in thought at the foot of this patch between the other two fresh graves that he doesn’t feel the first drops from the sky start to darken the back of his shirt or notice the rain mixing with the few tears running across his downcast face.