Petrichor

The blaring klaxon was barely audible over the rain it warned against.  Water droplets shot from the rumbling sky, tore leaves from the dying trees, smashed into the cracking pavement.  Trevon ran home, dodged the perilous rain, and huddled under his corrugated metal roof.  Tin jangled as the .22 caliber raindrops drilled through the layers of soft metal.  He couldn’t stay here.  There was a bunker across the street.  Rain pitted the freshly laid tarmac between Trevon and his goal.  He remembered his track days and set his hands on the muddy ground, his feet dug into the patch he usually slept on, a shriek down the road served as a starter’s pistol.

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