Post by Teo Blaze on May 21, 2017 2:54:47 GMT -5
Gloria had never been one for deep thought.
Now, one might hear such a description and take it as an insult. A knock at her intellect, her depth of character.
While one could take such a viewpoint, that listener has clearly never journeyed to the yellow sands of the Mexican wilderness.
Philosophy, introspection, reflection…such things are after all luxuries.
And while one could find many things across the blistering sands, luxuries were almost universally a distant dream.
Move forward. Press on. Survive.
This was the mantra of the desert.
The sands fed on distraction, on despair. The instant one allowed his mind to wave from thoughts of survival was the instant that he resigned himself to the buzzards.
Move forward. Press on. Survive.
The soft and rhythmic beats of Gloria’s footsteps across the desert sands echoed across the dunes, the noise breaking the otherworldly silence that would ordinarily cover the area like a blanket.
The high sun overhead rained down unforgiving heat, doing everything in its power to wring the life from Gloria’s slender frame, the light white cloth of her blouse clung to her skin, soaked with sweat.
One thing that she had learned in her years: the desert may be cruel, but it is honest. It does not attempt to hide its intentions. If one were to walk into the desert, he would be greeted by the open arms of the reaper, stretching an outstretched hand.
Over the years, Gloria had many opportunities to greet the reaper, to see him ply his trade. But he had never come for her, had always let her pass in peace.
For the reaper was someone to whom one payed respect, and those who gave him the proper reverence were allowed to come and go as they wished.
Those who would challenge him, however, those who would walk brazenly within his domain without a semblance of fear or caution…
Well, the vultures had to eat too.
One might find such an outlook cruel, uncaring.
Gloria called it necessary.
There were precious few resources in the desert already without taking care of those who did not wish to be saved.
Such thoughts swam about her head as she continued her journey, the soft rhythmic thudding of her steps keeping a steady tempo as she held a makeshift parasol over her head as a sunshade. At her side was a large wooden bucket, held together by rope and tar.
And on her belt was a large knife.
She had made the journey a hundred times or more in the past year alone, but it had never grown monotonous.
There was something to the experience, a surge of excitement. Though she had a full canteen resting in the bucket, the thought that she alone would readily make the dangerous trek from the village, well…
It awakened something within her.
A certain…spark… a feeling of excitement and childish delight, like a little girl reaching standing before a vicious dog, with only a leash between the two.
Knowing that she had control, that if she wished that she could walk right into its hungry jaws… it made her feel- brave. Defiant. Heroic.
But even in these flights of fancy she knew she would never let the dog off its leash.
Finally, she saw her destination, the same as a hundred times before, and her pace quickened with anticipation. The desert was a place of death, a place of pain. But there amidst the sands, like a glistening jewel, there was a patch of life.
A bright green oasis, surrounded on all sides by high palm trees and cacti- with a small pond in the middle.
Gloria loved visiting the oasis- though many had told her it was not worth the journey- to gather the small flowers that grew along its banks, to find pebbles in the shallows, and to feel the cool waters dance along her skin, an almost otherworldly coolness in a land so hot, so filled with pain.
And as she approached the oasis, she closed her eyes, taking in the lush green aromas, the flowers, the cacti- it smelled alive. Verdant. It was an escape from everything that the desert promised. A lone bastion of all that was good in the world laying right in the center of a wasteland.
It was a miracle.
There was no other word.
Finally, happily, she opened her eyes for the hundred and first time…
And saw something rather strange.
Lying among the banks was a lumpy-looking shape.
A shape unlike anything she had ever seen before.
She paused, caught in the reverie of one who has encountered something for the first time after a lifetime of monotony.
Finally though, almost unconsciously, she approached the lump.
As she came closer, she suddenly froze, the bucket dropping onto the sand as a sharp gasp escaped her lips.
Lying on the shores of the oasis, the last remnants of life barely audible in a wheezing and persistent gasp, lay a young man, about mid-20’s…his body scarred and covered in sand, cuts from the harsh wind dotting his torso, his hair dyed a dirty blonde from the desert sun, his skin red and patchy, tanned like leather from his journey to the patch of life. His chest slowly eked out labored breaths and his hand barely touched the edge of the pond.
Gloria stood in confusion, not sure what to do, looking about the oasis and back to the man. She finally bent down, grabbing her canteen and kneeling by the man, who rolled on his back as she drew near. She looked deeply into his eyes, but he was far past delirious. She tore a small strip of cloth from the hem of her dress and dipped it into the water, placing the makeshift thing onto his head, to bring down his body temperature.
She looked slowly up from the man across the waters, her mind flush with thought…
And saw the reaper standing on the opposite bank.
A hallucination? Had she gone crazy?
She looked down, expecting the reaper to approach, to take the man away.
But he did not.
He stood for what felt like an eternity, his pose stoic, then slowly reached up, tipping his hat to Gloria before turning and walking back into the desert sands.
Now, one might hear such a description and take it as an insult. A knock at her intellect, her depth of character.
While one could take such a viewpoint, that listener has clearly never journeyed to the yellow sands of the Mexican wilderness.
Philosophy, introspection, reflection…such things are after all luxuries.
And while one could find many things across the blistering sands, luxuries were almost universally a distant dream.
Move forward. Press on. Survive.
This was the mantra of the desert.
The sands fed on distraction, on despair. The instant one allowed his mind to wave from thoughts of survival was the instant that he resigned himself to the buzzards.
Move forward. Press on. Survive.
The soft and rhythmic beats of Gloria’s footsteps across the desert sands echoed across the dunes, the noise breaking the otherworldly silence that would ordinarily cover the area like a blanket.
The high sun overhead rained down unforgiving heat, doing everything in its power to wring the life from Gloria’s slender frame, the light white cloth of her blouse clung to her skin, soaked with sweat.
One thing that she had learned in her years: the desert may be cruel, but it is honest. It does not attempt to hide its intentions. If one were to walk into the desert, he would be greeted by the open arms of the reaper, stretching an outstretched hand.
Over the years, Gloria had many opportunities to greet the reaper, to see him ply his trade. But he had never come for her, had always let her pass in peace.
For the reaper was someone to whom one payed respect, and those who gave him the proper reverence were allowed to come and go as they wished.
Those who would challenge him, however, those who would walk brazenly within his domain without a semblance of fear or caution…
Well, the vultures had to eat too.
One might find such an outlook cruel, uncaring.
Gloria called it necessary.
There were precious few resources in the desert already without taking care of those who did not wish to be saved.
Such thoughts swam about her head as she continued her journey, the soft rhythmic thudding of her steps keeping a steady tempo as she held a makeshift parasol over her head as a sunshade. At her side was a large wooden bucket, held together by rope and tar.
And on her belt was a large knife.
She had made the journey a hundred times or more in the past year alone, but it had never grown monotonous.
There was something to the experience, a surge of excitement. Though she had a full canteen resting in the bucket, the thought that she alone would readily make the dangerous trek from the village, well…
It awakened something within her.
A certain…spark… a feeling of excitement and childish delight, like a little girl reaching standing before a vicious dog, with only a leash between the two.
Knowing that she had control, that if she wished that she could walk right into its hungry jaws… it made her feel- brave. Defiant. Heroic.
But even in these flights of fancy she knew she would never let the dog off its leash.
Finally, she saw her destination, the same as a hundred times before, and her pace quickened with anticipation. The desert was a place of death, a place of pain. But there amidst the sands, like a glistening jewel, there was a patch of life.
A bright green oasis, surrounded on all sides by high palm trees and cacti- with a small pond in the middle.
Gloria loved visiting the oasis- though many had told her it was not worth the journey- to gather the small flowers that grew along its banks, to find pebbles in the shallows, and to feel the cool waters dance along her skin, an almost otherworldly coolness in a land so hot, so filled with pain.
And as she approached the oasis, she closed her eyes, taking in the lush green aromas, the flowers, the cacti- it smelled alive. Verdant. It was an escape from everything that the desert promised. A lone bastion of all that was good in the world laying right in the center of a wasteland.
It was a miracle.
There was no other word.
Finally, happily, she opened her eyes for the hundred and first time…
And saw something rather strange.
Lying among the banks was a lumpy-looking shape.
A shape unlike anything she had ever seen before.
She paused, caught in the reverie of one who has encountered something for the first time after a lifetime of monotony.
Finally though, almost unconsciously, she approached the lump.
As she came closer, she suddenly froze, the bucket dropping onto the sand as a sharp gasp escaped her lips.
Lying on the shores of the oasis, the last remnants of life barely audible in a wheezing and persistent gasp, lay a young man, about mid-20’s…his body scarred and covered in sand, cuts from the harsh wind dotting his torso, his hair dyed a dirty blonde from the desert sun, his skin red and patchy, tanned like leather from his journey to the patch of life. His chest slowly eked out labored breaths and his hand barely touched the edge of the pond.
Gloria stood in confusion, not sure what to do, looking about the oasis and back to the man. She finally bent down, grabbing her canteen and kneeling by the man, who rolled on his back as she drew near. She looked deeply into his eyes, but he was far past delirious. She tore a small strip of cloth from the hem of her dress and dipped it into the water, placing the makeshift thing onto his head, to bring down his body temperature.
She looked slowly up from the man across the waters, her mind flush with thought…
And saw the reaper standing on the opposite bank.
A hallucination? Had she gone crazy?
She looked down, expecting the reaper to approach, to take the man away.
But he did not.
He stood for what felt like an eternity, his pose stoic, then slowly reached up, tipping his hat to Gloria before turning and walking back into the desert sands.
Move Forward.
Press On.
Survive.
