J. M. Hemmings

No Single Raindrop

It was almost here. I downed my final gulp of whiskey and tossed the bottle, which exploded on the sidewalk next to a middle-aged couple engaged in frantic lovemaking. Their writhing bodies, stark beneath an all-searing sky that bleached Los Angeles in tones of dazzling arctic white, were but one scene of thousands lifted straight from a Hieronymus Bosch canvas.