(The closing sentence for this story was suggested by Uma of One grain amongst the storm. If you want to join in the fun of suggesting a future closing sentence for these stories, click here for a peek as to what’s what.)
Everyone pardons the rain. If it rains on a picnic it’s cooling down the oppressive heat. If it rains on the street it’s washing away the stifling dust. If it rains on a normal day it’s watering the garden. If it rains at a funeral it is tears of sorrow. If it rains on a wedding procession ah! it is a sign of wonderful fertility.
Bernice had no such worries for her wedding. It was planned for the dry season when each day for weeks on end would dawn warm and dry. The bridal party and guests would process brightly from the church to the place where the reception was to be held. It would be on foot, except for a cousin in a wheel chair; she would be pushed! The whole world could take part in the procession if they wished.
And indeed! The day dawned bright and cheerful. The wedding service in the church was so beautiful that even grandpa had to borrow grandma’s lace handkerchief to dab his eyes. And then the groom announced: “We invite everyone to join our procession from here to the place of reception!”
They set out. Drums and fifes led the way. It was the happiest of all happy processions! That was when the bomb went off.
Somewhere up there, the clouds murmured and groaned as fat drops of rain fell on the lifeless forms on the street.