Saturday, August 28, 2010

Billy had been out in the sun for far too long. He didn't know exactly what desert he was in, or whether he had been wandering in circles for days or hours, or how much further he could go without a drink or a morsel. He kept his ears on guard for the sound of the sea, any sign that he was near to home, but aside from the rising and falling of dust that had been pried loose from the deserts deeply cut ridges there was only silence. Not even the rattle of a deathsnake. He wondered if they had killed him after all, and if this was hell, or, worse, heaven. Since the attack, the sky was no longer blue in appearance, only a tantalizing greyish orange. There was only haze, and not a welcoming cloud to be seen; no moisture at all.

The days were only measurable by the vanishing of the orange into a darker orange, and the slight relief of cold sand at night. Billy no longer rested during these hours, however, and continued on, his lips silently forming the shapes of human words, phrases, songs.

No comments:

Post a Comment