After Destruction

The prophet mutter his pronouncements to a jaded congregation that paid no attention. They didn't need to hear the truth from the mouth of a crazed zealot to understand this time was different. The world really was coming to an end. At least all the parts that mattered.

War. Drought. Pestilence. Disease.

Everything promised had finally arrived, and the people, rather than tending to their own affairs, were content to rage and destroy and ensure that everyone would meet the same fate. Leave nothing behind.

The prophet continued to mumble for anyone who might be listening.

"After destruction comes rebirth."

Gratitude

“So nice,” Sarah thought, reciprocating a friendly wave.

She would’ve helped if her arthritic hands weren’t an issue. Instead, she watched the next door neighbor bend countless times to weed a bountiful garden.

When showy bouquets were presented at her front door, Sarah returned the favor with her baking. When her husband died, the neighbor had arranged funeral flowers free of charge.

Drought settled the following year. Flowering plants suffered. Rosebuds dried, not getting a chance to bloom. Much of the garden had dwindled.

Unlike the blossoming friendship between the two women, who found themselves together at a seniors’ lodging.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

Drought’s End

It was almost dark and he pulled into his driveway a happy man.

He had planned to be home in time for lunch, or at least to be at home at lunchtime, home in time for his favorite talking heads to read him the news he’d missed in the morning while he showered so as to make himself presentable at his favorite café, his best black journal open, crying out for him not to allow yet another eight-day lapse without so much as a single penstroke.

It was almost dark and he was happy to have generated three whole sentences.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette