Joshua Bsoveld

Senior Writing

Macy Schimmel

12/11/2020

The Drought

The air was still and dry, out here no water meant death, and not a fast death, it meant a

slow, painful suffering for days until finally the soft embrace of death took you away. Kyle

crawled forward, his lips dry and parched, his throat hurt when he breathed. All he wanted was a

drop of that sweet water that was just over the next dune.

Suddenly his knees and arms gave out and fell face first into the hot sand. This was it,

this was how he was going to go. It was sad but there was no other way. But what was that? A

voice? He strained his ears, listening to what may be his only chance. Through the fog in his

brain came the sound again, what were they saying? He called out and heard a reply.

“Oh quit being so dramatic Kyle, there’s water bottles in the cooler and an entire lake

right there, just stand up and go get one.”