They say the sun out here can kill a man. Dry him out like old jerky, flense the flesh off his bones and turn them to stone, then to dust. Out here that kinda dust don’t just blow away, it lingers; soulless splinters, whipped up by spiteful eddies of capricious wind, tiny pieces of people. They’ll draw tears from the eyes of unwary travellers, wheedle out precious moisture, help the sun desiccate them.
But I like it here. Places where nature is harsh, perilous, are more real. There’s a dangerous whispering truth to them, like the fascinating glint on the treacherous edge on a newly whetted blade. You just got to take care, that’s all. Make the right choice. The ones that come here think they know that. By looking for me they prove that they’re serious – or desperate.
There’s a longing in them, a need, not just a want. An edge, something I can work with. They can be honed, ground into polished dust. So they come, they think they got choices. But no, whichever way you go from here, it’s me or the sun. That’s why the crossroads is always the best place for me to make deals.
This was written for Cara Michaels' Menage Monday 48