Thought I’d try a prose poem this time. I know it’s not a story, because a story has a beginning, middle and end.
We were four now in number, and the plains played unwilling host. Hot, dry, ground agape, brittle grass and weeds. We were herded by dust devils. Rain to the south kept pace with us, never moving closer, not sending even a smell of water our way. Vera stumbled, almost fell one step in ten, but trudged on. Ross moved steadily, spine straight, eyes level forward, staring at his own thoughts. Only Maria sweated, the rest already wrung out, only her throat was not too parched for a cicada drone of mumbled curses. I was dizzy, my head and eyeballs hurt from heat and weariness and constant scanning. It was my expedition, my vision of artifice triumphing over nature. I watched for snakes, water, signs. I watched for a hint of change in weather or landscape. I watched for the sun to budge, grant us at least a shadow.