Flash by Yakub
The town crier whiskerly howled not to the best of his cry.
‘People, please. Preserve. Do not waste. Ration. RATION.’ He carries on daily with the same words in different tone, ‘Ration. RATION. PRESERVE.’ His cries get weaker as the days go by.
There is a queue and people look at the thin and whiskerly crier.
Someone calls out, ‘We can hear you,’ but no one listens. No one cares.
It is the afternoon and the day is hot. The air is dry, people are thirsty, carrying on with their business. The sky is clear, people look up, but no clouds. Dismay. Suddenly, from far away a loud thunder roars. Vibrates. People in the street run, frightened. They look up. But nothing, no sign.
Evening falls. Lightning strikes fill the air, the sky bursts, luminous. Finally, thundering rain follows.
And the town crier whiskerly howls with the best of his cry, loudly, so loudly, so deafening.
‘People! Please preserve. Do not waste. RATION, RATION, RATION.’
There was no queue. People looked, did not stop, but muttered, ‘We have rain. What the cry for? NO ONE CARES.’
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