By: Chloe Wu

Whoosh. The early Autumn Gust frolicked with the leaves dying by the sidewalk as the Clouds glided regally in the blueness of the sky. Kids clung on to the final days of summer break, while elderly grandmas took walks with their elderly friends. Siblings bickered, middle-aged businessmen went about their work, and the local cherry-picking opened. The Clouds glided slowly along, together.

“These beautiful people down below are just so fun,” whispered a white wisp. Clouds never speak loudly; it’s their natural personality.

Another murmured, “Quite so! Let us rain a little, to allow them to delight in our existence. Besides, don’t you just love the sensation? It tickles!” The Clouds collectively drizzled down upon the town. “Just be sure to not let too much rain down. Your lives depend on it. Wink, wink.” The toddlers grinned at the sky with their tongues stretched out, catching droplets in their mouths. A quiet, angry, tremble came from the Autumn Gust.

“You…diminish…me,” came a weak grumble from the wind.

“Ah, apologies,” the Clouds teased, with no hint of remorse. And that was when the gusts began.

The Autumn Gust whirled harder, delighting in its power without the rain, determined for revenge. “I was in France a few seasons ago. Before that, Brazil. Those Clouds treated me FINE. And here YOU are!”

Children giggled as their hair flapped about. Whooshes became howls, and leaves were swept away, airborne. Parents closed their clattering windows. The howls tore through the air, the Autumn Gust reveling, shrieking through the air, its dark glory widening to the point of no control. The Clouds were torn apart.

Scattered to shreds, each wisp of white was set on its own, independent path, forever. In the next months, they journeyed over mountain ranges; some discovered the wonder of the wide grasslands, while others explored the grand, glittering oceans. However, the Cloud most interesting— the Cloud to fall— was swept to the villages of Africa.

The drought in Africa was taking its toll. The farmland was wildly cracked, and nearly every lake and river were dried to the bottom. The few that could were moving out, while many could only pray with their hearts and souls. The Cloud witnessed one such prayer.

“Oh gods of the sky, gods of the rain, gods of the lakes and rivers, hear our plea!” a man rasped with a cracked voice. His family was circled around him, as well as neighbors and friends. They were bone-thin, their lips dry and weak, and their eyes anguished.

His wife cried, “Water—just—water—please,” and collapsed on the ground.

The Cloud looked down, but remembered the warning that was jokingly made long ago, when all was well: “Just be sure to not let too much rain down. Your lives depend on it.”

Was it? Was all well, when the Cloud was young and naïve, in the town of joyful people, in the town of the thriving, the wealthy? Were these people like this before, thirsty and desperate?

“Pretty please?” A three-year-old stood up with wide eyes and a heart that had gone through more than it should’ve.

And without thinking, the Cloud let loose all the droplets it could, relentlessly offering this village the first hope in the months of hopelessness. Disregarding its dwindling existence, the Cloud rained down, determined to bring joy to the unjoyful, the impoverished, and the poor. The toddler smiled up for the first time, his parents with tears in their eyes, at the brave, gloriously fallen Cloud.