On the eve of the Thunder Moon, the villagers gathered in the square, hoping to hear their names called. They huddled in close and looked ahead, fingers crossed, and their eyes watching the mayor pace on the stone stand, erected hundreds of years ago, for this night’s ritual.
The fireflies in the distance rose until they were undistinguishable from the stars in the clear night’s sky.
“With any luck,” the mayor said, cutting through the murmur. “We’ll get rain tomorrow.”
The crowd laughed and hollered, eager to discover who among them would receive the honour of drowning in the river.
Prompt courtesy the Daily Post.