"The desert bears only a scathing sun, and nothing more."
"What about mirages?"

Sunday, June 28, 2009

The Bus Ride.

He was lost to the comforting tremors of the road, his head pressed up against the window pane. He watched as dusty roads and weather worn trees and hills that tumbled forever onwards rushed by. The beautiful, sacharine sky was masked with clouds. The summer sun, partially hidden by these, kissed the world in a hazy light.

He could feel his eyelids drooping, getting heavier with every moment that past. He knew it would be easier just to let them drop. But the landscape kept rushing by; he was afraid to miss it, it was so beautiful.

He kept fighting back the urge to sleep, and as he did, his eyes continued to sweep across the painted canvas of the earth. He loved this country, he didn't want to leave it. But he knew, for the sake of his family, he must.

* * *

This is just a short something I started working on while riding the bus to Calgary. I never really decided what it was about, or where it would have headed as a story idea, but I thought I'd share.

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"Write with our backs to the wind and our faces to the hard, bleaching sun."