Desperate Times

IN WHAT has become a morning ritual, Amos slings the gun over his shoulder, opens the front door and peers upon the dawn sky. Unsurprisingly, there isn’t even a wisp of a cloud anywhere on the horizon. The night is rapidly fading against the rising sun in a defeated, bruised purple. Despite the hour, it’s unseasonably warm.

Amos surveys the barren landscape of cracked brown earth which used to be carpeted by lush, verdant pasture. He sighs, berating himself for daring to hope that today would be any different. He should have learnt by now that hope is the worst kind of torture – especially when repeatedly going unfulfilled.

His despair still hasn’t abated by the time he steps into the barn. Usually, the gentle lowing of the cattle soothes him, but this time, it angers him as he looks at their diminishing frames, their