Dangerous Summer
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.
___
200 Words
@nickjohns999
This was written for Cara Michaels' Menage Monday 48
No comments:
Post a Comment