It’s a gentle sound, this rain, like an innocuous percussive triangle shimmering in afternoon light.
We’ve been told not to venture out, to be certain the rain droplets have no way of seeping in.
We are hostages to diseased weather, left to us by our parents and their parents. So many nonbelievers selfish in their abuse.
Everything’s poisoned, the trees, the animals, the air. In moments, we will also be, our homes a transient sanctuary.
Web extends his palm, showing four red capsules. The poison will be a worse death than these. We swallow them with fake chocolate milk, clasp hands, and wait.