Allister had once lived in a city whose sky threatened rain, whose clouds swelled with moisture and drooped down to almost touch the ground. And, from that ground, it seemed almost painful for the sky. And, yet, it would rarely break into an all-out storm.
There were even times when the Earth itself would become so parched and cracked and dry, desperately begging for rain. And people would collect on the dry, parched, and cracked Earth and whisper raspy prayers through their dry, parched, and cracked lips. And, still, the sky would refuse.
Eventually, it would rain, of course. It always eventually did.
And, when it did rain, Allister would collect a single drop from each storm. And he would place it in a mason jar. And he would carry this jar wherever and whenever he could. As time went by, the raindrops would accumulate and their collected strength would climb a little higher up the mason jar's glass.
If Allister became thirsty, he would not drink from the jar. Oh, no. Not even if it was his only option. Those raindrops were not for drinking. Those raindrops were for saving.
He would save them for a time that would eventually happen. One of those moments where human emotion swelled to such extremes that no one knew what to do. Catastrophes of catastrophic natures would have occured. Tragedy in all its jagged tragedy. And people would swell. They would stand in place and swell. They would want to know what to do next. Where to go. How to recover. How to move on. They would, with their dry and parched and cracked lips, beg to cry.
But, instead, they would swell.
Inside, all the emotion that one normally felt on the outside built up to such extremes. And no one would cry. Not even Allister (and he had been known to cry at the mere thought of a fairy tale's end).
So, Allister would open his mason jar, dip his finger in and drop a raindrop.
Then, another.
And another.
And another.
And, eventually, the raindrops would be joined by teardrops.
And, eventually (some time after), they would move on.
There were even times when the Earth itself would become so parched and cracked and dry, desperately begging for rain. And people would collect on the dry, parched, and cracked Earth and whisper raspy prayers through their dry, parched, and cracked lips. And, still, the sky would refuse.
Eventually, it would rain, of course. It always eventually did.
And, when it did rain, Allister would collect a single drop from each storm. And he would place it in a mason jar. And he would carry this jar wherever and whenever he could. As time went by, the raindrops would accumulate and their collected strength would climb a little higher up the mason jar's glass.
If Allister became thirsty, he would not drink from the jar. Oh, no. Not even if it was his only option. Those raindrops were not for drinking. Those raindrops were for saving.
He would save them for a time that would eventually happen. One of those moments where human emotion swelled to such extremes that no one knew what to do. Catastrophes of catastrophic natures would have occured. Tragedy in all its jagged tragedy. And people would swell. They would stand in place and swell. They would want to know what to do next. Where to go. How to recover. How to move on. They would, with their dry and parched and cracked lips, beg to cry.
But, instead, they would swell.
Inside, all the emotion that one normally felt on the outside built up to such extremes. And no one would cry. Not even Allister (and he had been known to cry at the mere thought of a fairy tale's end).
So, Allister would open his mason jar, dip his finger in and drop a raindrop.
Then, another.
And another.
And another.
And, eventually, the raindrops would be joined by teardrops.
And, eventually (some time after), they would move on.
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