The signs were all there but ignored by most except for Gus who sat in the front bar of the Stags Skull, his crazed eyes focused on something far away.

Every so often he’d make a proclamation. “We’ll all be done for,” he says in his now familiar hysterical tone.

“It’s the locusts. The locusts have gone. There’s not been a drop of rain in months, the crops are dying, the harvest isn’t happening, its all a sign I tell you, a sign.”

Around him, the fellow bar dwellers would nod and order him another beer and nudge each other that Gus was off and running and they’d enjoy goad him until he’d become so loud the barkeeper would eject him.

All the while Gus would sip his beer and mutter under his breath, and on occasion make audible threats about the safety of our community and that he’d seen it all before.

Continue reading: Thursday photo prompt – Signs – #writephoto | Morpethroad