Updated: Apr 6
I really enjoyed this weeks prompt. As soon as Annie posted it, the story just leaped into my mind. I think this story is something I can really expand upon too. Why are they in the desert? Who is Taylor and Betty? Why is their dog named Beaver? This could be a tale of love and loss - or intrigue...really, it could go just anywhere. But for now, it is what it is and I'll leave it at that.
Prompt – A male named Taylor, a female called Betty, and a mutt know as Beaver are lost somewhere in the desert. What happens to them next?
“That’s the last of it.”
Taylor forces his neck to work so he can turn his head and set eyes on Betty—even in this sorry state, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
She’s holding a plastic bottle out to him—the last one. The contents, now the value of liquid diamonds, sloshes and reflects stabs of sunlight into his weary eyes. Smacking his lips but finding no moisture, he tries to speak but all that comes out is a soft croak. What he’s trying to say is, give it to Beaver, but he can’t make the words. Beaver’s head lies in Betty’s lap, eyes closed, tongue out, panting, struggling, holding on to dear life just like his humans.
The cliff they had been using for shade is useless now. If at all possible, it’s time to move, to find another spot to protect them all from the relentless sun above. But moving even an inch is a chore. Taylor is afraid that he’ll have to carry the mutt if they are to continue on—and that’s something he’s not sure he can do.
Betty, tired from holding out the water, sets the bottle on the ground. There’re only a few inches of shade left as the sun exposes their cover to the afternoon glare.
There’s a rumbling in the distance and Taylor hopes against all hope that it’s a rare storm forming—that the mighty hand of God is molding it just for them, using His own breath to send relief their way. A tickle of wind licks his neck and he can smell the moisture in the air. The thought of it brings new strength. He reaches out and takes Betty’s hand, forces his gaze to explore her face.
She smiles. Her eyes are focused a thousand yards away, on something over his left shoulder.
“Rain,” she whispers, squeezing his hand with an effort. Even Beaver lifts his head with a renewed sense of hope.
The thunder increases in intensity as the storm approaches—God’s way of telling Tyler that it’s not yet their time.
September 26, 2018