Young Writers Society

006 – Hours

I don’t understand that boy. He can’t seem to take the time to appreciate what’s around him. Sure, there isn’t much around us right now in this dusty hell-hole, but at least he could appreciate his youth. Always he wants time to move faster. It’s like he doesn’t realize that every second that passes puts him another second closer to death.

I can’t really blame him, I guess. I was probably the same when I was his age. Not that I remember. All I can really remember is the saddle I’m sitting on, the reins in my hands, the gun on my back and the dragon beneath me. And the sand. There’s always been sand. The Mutts really seem to like godforsaken dustpans that are a thousand degrees in the day and a million below at night. No wonder we can’t find them. Heatseekers don’t work when the sand is hot enough to blister. And we can’t find anything at night either. So we have to do it the old-fashioned way.

I can understand why they sent me out here. They know I’m at the end of my rope. There are worse ways to spend your last days than riding through an oven, looking for Mutts that don’t exist. Better than rotting in one of those nursing homes that all us old people have to go to nowadays. But he’s just a kid. He oughta be at home, bothering the girls, or at least with his family, rather than out here with nothing to kiss but his dragon and nothing prettier to look at than me. At least when he finally does get back to civilization, he’ll have a better appreciation of beauty.

- o – o – o -

I don’t understand that old man. He seems to just sit in his saddle and stare at the horizon forever. He’ll tell me that he’s looking for Mutts, but I know he’s just senile. My granddad got that way before he went to the mental institute. Mom just liked to call it ‘special treatment.’

He’s always going on about the Mutts: how dangerous they are and how important our jobs are, but I know he’s just trying to make me feel better. He doesn’t believe in the Mutts anymore than I do. The whole thing is bogus, but here we are, bored out of our skulls and shriveling up in the world’s largest sauna just so they can turn out the light at night without squealing. Jeez. At least he tries.

It feels like I’ve been out here forever. I can feel my dragon’s sweat soaking through the saddle. I’ll have to wipe her down before the sun goes down. She’s pretty well suited for the cold – I sleep against her at night; she’s real warm - but covered with water like that, she’ll freeze. But dark is forever off and there isn’t a thing to see beyond the shimmer on the horizon and sand. Lots of sand.

I sometimes thing about what it would be like to die out here, with only that old man and two dragons for companions. Would they stop to bury me, or would they just leave me? The old man’s decent enough. He’d probably bury me. But I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. At least not until I French that brunette that works at the pizza place near my house. There are just some things you have to do before you die.