Nick Karft

David G O'Sullivan

It had not rained on Tad Hill for four months. Summer had passed and now in autumn it was still dry and the ground changed from hard scorched rock to soft powder and dust. The wind picked up the soil and blew it through the air, covering everything in the fine grit. The corn crop had failed. The green shoots had come, they grew into leafy plant and then turned brown and grey, withering away. Karft had carted water to the crops, pouring it down the rows leaving the grey dirt, dark and moist. But soon the water ran low and even the small amount he could bring was not enough. He worked for hours each day, two buckets from the well, carried to the crop, half a bucket for every four plants. Still they died.
One sunset, after the corn was no more, he sat in the dust and…

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