March/April 2017

I was wearing old shoes, brown like the dust my feet tramped through. The wind was sighing around my ears, a soft symphony echoing off the lonesome Joshua trees that dotted the cracked earth. Their thick limbs out, they were awkward creatures trying desperately to catch the little moisture that the air held. Their spiny leaves stuck out for protection, daring anyone to try and take the water stored beneath their thick skin. Their roots had burst through the earth, so parched they had shriveled, opening their vaults to the heat; giving up. I heard a magpie squawking, feathers flashing silver in the three o’clock sun, its black beak combing the ground, watching with small, dark, beady eyes for anything unlucky enough to cross its path. Looking down, I saw car tracks, slender valleys in the earth. People were here, I thought. Perhaps my relentless search was not in vain. I kept tramping on, down the lonely road. A deep scar, a reminder that even in nature’s domain human civilization still holds its iron fist tight. I felt a bead of thirst boiling up in my throat, threatening to overtake me. A cactus came within my view, a small, young one. I broke one of the limbs off and peeled off the outer skin, supple; it had not yet learned how harsh life can be. I had thought that it would be so easy when they said, “Get to the other side.” I had been so naive, thinking I could do the unthinkable, cross this small desert alone. I had already walked through five twilights, and the desert still cascaded on in front of me. A roiling carpet going on and on into infinity. She said hello to me, her musical voice echoing across the vast, empty, rocky plain Darkness started to come with unexpected swiftness. It climbed up the ladder of the sky, took hold of the sun, and swallowed it. I heard rustling beside me, animals were coming out. The foxes emerged with ears almost twice the size of their heads, rusty brown fur swaying with each step, fine, like the things you might find in high-end boutiques. I heard an owl hoot in the distance, far away, coming in for the kill. I found an old hollow in a burnt-out tree, struck years ago. It looked like twisted dreams, aged, gone sour. I saw something skittering over a rock in front of me in the waning sun. A gecko, brown with spikes upon its back. Even small insignificant creatures needed to protect themselves. I had heard about them on the television when I was little, on a show about the Wild West. I cringed under my blanket in my mother’s bed whenever I saw them, scared that they would gobble me whole. I now saw that they fit inside one of my worn-out shoes. Settling down to sleep, the sand filling in the spaces between my toes, coating my sweaty feet, I dreamt odd snippets of dreams. They always ended right before they were done. I woke up more tired than when I had first laid down on the sand in which I was drowning. I looked out and saw that the splatter-painted sunset of the night before had disappeared, and a softly blended sunrise had taken its place. The red and orange swirled together so that it looked as if the whole world was cracking open, coming out of its shell and being set free. I felt the cool morning dew settling on my skin, I knew this moisture would not last for long. Soon the sun would drink every last drop that we mortal animals so desperately held in our clutches and leave us with only the memory of the beads of dampness. I started to walk again, the red rocks building up beside me, enclosing me in a natural box. Cliffs spiraled out of nowhere, rough, like something that a three-year-old would make out of a lump of clay. I kept on walking, sweat dripping into my eyes. Heat was rolling over me, one excruciatingly slow wave at a time. I felt my whole body growing heavy, but I dragged myself on, that driving fear inside of me, pushing me onwards, fear of being forgotten, dying out here where nobody would care that I was gone. I felt the callouses on my feet rubbing against my shoes, restless jolts of pain, sharp reminders with each step as to how little resilience I had left. I had run out of water this morning. My thoughts started to blur together. My steps were faltering, I felt I could no longer go on when I looked down and saw that the car tire tracks had grown fresher, more defined. I was getting closer to habitation. Maybe my journey was almost over and help was at hand. A dark silhouette rose upon the horizon, a misshapen blot steadily getting closer every step I took. The blotch took on the form of a house. I saw it with a peculiar clarity—all its details are etched in my mind even now. It was the kind of house you would see in an old western film, the whitewash on the porch faded from the beating sun. It had withered away, like so much else in this barren land. There were old wooden columns supporting a cracked, pale gray roof. A few of the shingles had been lost, fallen away. They had left empty sockets, eyes, staring up at the ever-cloudless sky. The house itself was made of sandstone, frayed away in some places. The air had warped the crumbly red rock, carving it into the faint shape of a smile echoed in the curved treads of the rocking chair that rested on the porch. Its soft wood slowly bumped, swaying in an invisible breeze. The old, loose fabric, printed with a faded pattern of running horses, was coming up off of the cushion. Billowing, it trapped air inside. The door