dry

The rain pelts mercilessly. My parched throat craves liquid, but my feeble brain knows better than to swallow. Tugging the hood of the heavy rubber coat, I lick my cracked lips and taste blood.
I hurry along the empty alley, spattering the reflections of blinking lights. Discarded flyers and plastic wrappers cling to the wet asphalt. The dark, silent windows of storehouses gaze down at me.
I reach a dead end. I see no more lights, no remnants of civilization. The infinite blackness spreads ahead.
Water, everywhere.

PHOTO PROMPT © Anne Higa

For Friday Fictioneers – 15 April 2021.

15 thoughts on “dry

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