a chilled glass of Blood Orange Juice
The sky pink, hazy.
My eyes lower to the red plain before me.
Pirouetting dust devils captivate, their choreographer an alien mistral.
Mesas sentinel, majestically dominate the desolate horizon.
Sand rat-a-tat-tats against my visor synchronous with the bass drumming of my heart.
A sudden overwhelming epiphany, I do not belong here.
Words, so exhaustively rehearsed, escape me as my foot leaves the platform and makes its historic print.
Cyclonal spouts of grit and stone envelop me, shredding and slashing my suit, my flesh.
I scream as my very being becomes a red mist and blends with the landscape.
About the Author
David lives on the edge of Epping Forest having been raised on a council estate in South London. Recently resigned from a stressful job after twenty years he finds that his mind is decluttering and is now able to concentrate on hobbies and interests. He hopes, despite a crippling fear of grammar and punctuation, that writing will become one of them.
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