Young Writers Society

Low

Dry, warm, sand, underneath his entire body. The sting of it piecing his scars and wounds. He identified it, by the touch of his bare hand, grasping it, and letting is pour out, slowly. His eyes open, widend, and in concern. He swiftly sat up, revealing his sand covered back, that had been busy practically absorbing the sand, in his sleep. His feet, were tied together, so stiffly, they might as well have been a single foot. He looked to his right, he spots a second rope, this one mangled on the ground, and tied to nothing. He then attempted to get up, hopping around on his one leg, desperately trying to stay afloat on the desert ground. He collapsed, from desperation, anxiety, and fear. All three were more than enough weight for him to handle. He got up once more, and extended his height with the help of his toes, ejecting him into the sky. Looking around, he can only see darkness. The only illuminating justice was the moon, but unfortunately that was covered by clouds of the night sky. Only few rays of sight were allowed through. There is nothing else, but the sand he could feel. And the rope, most useless.

“HELLO?”

His cry traveled all around a short distance, no one in which, could hear. For there was no one to hear it. He then placed his hands upon his inseparable legs. Pulling and tugging on the rope, for the sweet taste of liberty. But nothing could be done with bare, dry hands. Well, I suppose wet hands couldn’t do much good either, could they? He gives up, no ounce of hope could be found in his teary eyes. Truely a pitiful sight to see, if you could see through the blackness. He lies flat on his back for a while, almost as if he were trying to suck up the sand into his skin, and lie motionless. After a long period passes, the fire of a thousand reaches his face. Scorching his skin, any hotter it would have signed him. He opens his eyes to whiteness, the exact opposite of what was before, on the previous evening. Soon, the whiteness fades, and color begins to reveal itself. Mostly, in this image, the majority of the scene is a tan color, but much brighter. Close to white in hue, but not quite. Not only that, but the clear blue sky, covered only a part of his vision. He was lying sideways, if on his back, more could be visible. But the most eye catching color, was black. 

It wasn’t very much blackness, it took up very little of the scene. But it stood out from the brightness. As this blackness grew into focus, it started to take shape. This shape was unfamiliar to him, recognizable upon full realization, but at this point, he was only hesitant. It revealed itself to be a scorpion. He lets out a fant gasp, quiet, so that he didn’t disturb the arachnid. The scorpion moved, drawing closer to him. It eventually crawled upon his face, resting its legs upon him. Out of fear, and self defense, in his mind, he grabbed the scorpion by the tail, but hopefully just low enough, and flung it off of himself. The scorpion landed a few feet away, reluctant, he pick up a small stone, and crushed it. Smashing it with what little strength he had from his slumber, in pure desperation. For if he did he did not dispose of the scorpion’s life, the scorpion would of done so of him. 

After a few hits, he paused to inspect the little beast. It was still in one piece, although many factors had been made. Just enough to produce its final breath. He dropped the rock, and pierced down upon the poor creature. No tears were shed that he ever spoke of, but shame, was a definite product coming down his face. He then felt a sharp pain erupt on the surface of his hand. There was a small mark in the center of it, an imprint of vengeance. His hand then started to feel somewhat stiff, still mobile for the most part, but stiff, nonetheless. Not only that, but another pain was overwhelming him. A pain of the stomach, a cry from emptiness, a yearning to be full, from within. A quick look around told him, that there was no source of food for eons. 

Except, for one saving grace. The deceased arachnid from before, still intact, and full of sweet nutrients, and meat. He picked up the flattened table weight, holding it by the claw, at the tip of his fingers. First, he gave it a good dusting off. Then, he brought it closer to his face. So close, he could smell the leaking fluids from it’s corpse. He drops the scorpion at the thought of this, and back away. He decides to stick it out, and search for an alternative solution. The only other object in sight is the spare rope. Which in this situation, is useless. Although, unknown to him from lack of activity, a road was nearby. Many 40 or 50 feet away, yet it was in sight. But if any vehicles were to pass along it, it was likely he would have noticed. At notice of this seemingly saving grace, he runs over to it, in hope of salvation. Once reaching his destination, his feet immediately make contact with the road, burning the surface of the bottom of his feet. He lefts out a fant scream, but no one even a foot away could hear it. His throat was at its driest, and couldn’t make even the smallest of sounds. 

After this sensation had met his feet, he fell over onto the road, burning his arm, and the side of his face, which caused him to desperately roll back into the hot, yet not quite as hot sand. This gave him 1st degree burns on many parts of his body, He sat up, and looked across the road, in defeat. But that defeat quickly went away once he saw inspiration. It was a traveling sack, just on the other side of this hazardous road. He knew he had to get that sack, for survival. But how? Not many ideas he thought of were anything less than barbaric. So he did the most visual. He was going to place only one foot upon the middle of the road, and lunge himself across. He first go some needed distance, leaned forwards, and ran as fast as his thin legs would take him. He launched himself upward, and stuck the landing! But his foot then immediately started burning. So he swiftly made his second jump, using his arm to break his heavy fall. He had made it, he had gotten to the sack, at a cost, bur worth it. He then opened the bag, in search of food. But there was none, nothing to be spoken of. Only tools, and even more rope. 

He stared at these contents for a moment, and then continued to stare, but now enraged. He threw the sack back across the road, in anger. Spilling all of the tools and rope. He then began to weep and wail, tearing out his hair, falling on his knees, he looked to the sky, and screamed. He made his way back across, and picked up the bag, and as many tools he could. He left the rope. He dropped the bag at his original resting spot. He sat next to it. Overlooking what he had found. A trowel, a hammer, jumper cables, whiskey, a bowie knife, and a revolver. He picked it up, and looked inside, almost full, only one bullet had been fired. Leaving 6 shots left. He stood up, loaded it, and pointed it into the air. He shot, only once. He then waited, hoping something had heard him. But there was nothing, but the echo of the blast. All of a sudden, the bullet he had just fired came back down, and hit his shoulder. 

Fortunately only leaving a minor wound. He then loaded it one more, and fired twice into the air, but this time off to the side, to not repeat the same mistake. Again, nothing. He dropped the gun. He then tossed it all aside. None of which was useful to him now. After sitting and pondering for some time, he pondered some more. But overtime, he felt dizzy, and nausea. He collapsed, and became unconscious, within moments. Some time later, he was woken up by the ever growing pains of hunger. He needed to feast upon something, but nothing was apparent to him. It was now night, this time less clouds filled the sky, More vision was available, thanks to the shine of the moon. He then looked over at the scorpion from the day prior, the one he himself, pronounced dead. The hypothetical solution entered his mind. But what little rationality and morality he had left rejected it. If he had devoured this dead arachnid, what might become of him? The thought haunted him, seduced him.

It was the only thing he could think about, it would not leave his mind, for it was fueled by the suffering of hunger. It was driving him insane. Tossing and turning, over and over. Throbbing his own mind, to rid himself of it. But alas, it was to no avail. He practically leaped over to the corpse. He stared tearing it apart, and shoving it into his mouth, grinding it into microscopic bits. The warm fluids of it were the only thing to moisen his mouth. The scorpion left a mortifying sound whithin his mouth, that echoed throughout his head. After a slow and painful swallow, he laid his head down. He then lifted his hands in front of his face, and he stared at them, in shame, disgust, and fear….. He closes his eyes. 

The next day he awoke, with a throbbing head pain. He sat up, dusting the sand off his stained clothes. He looked down in despair, thinking of the previous night’s events. But then, something to the right had caught his eye. It was a bird of some kind, it was very small, and it had a blue tail. He had never seen a bird like this, but he had seen birds in similar positions. This bird was lying down, motionless. He inspected the creature, and unfortunately, it was dead. Killed by the hustle of the desert. He decided to take opportunity of this situation. He searched through the bag, and picked up the bowie knife. He used it to de-feather the bird. Also, decapitate and to gut the ex flyer. He then took the pointed end of the hammer, and a nearby rock, and he scrapped the two together. After awhile of non stop scraping, sparks started to fly. He then picked up the rope he was once entangled in, and placed it in front of the rock, he continued his motions, and finally a spark hit the rope, and only a small fraction began to burn, but it quickly went out. He then grabbed the whiskey from the bag, sucked a quarter of it into his mouth, and poured the rest on the rope. After creating more sparks, the rope finally caught fire. He then carefully spit the whiskey on the surrounding area of the rope. 

The fire then began to grow, and increased in size. With the bowie knife, he swiftly stabbed the freshly “cleaned” bird. He then held it above the fire, and held it there, carefully. After some time of patience, and tired arms, the bird had browned just enough. He pulled it away from the fire, and inhaled it’s scent. This soothed any and all migraines resting in his head. He then began to sink his teeth, slowly into the birds sweating, warm flesh. 

This moistened his dry mouth, give it a long desired refreshment. He quickly began ripping the meat straight off of the bones, it had been so long since he had a full meal. His stomach was starting to eat his body whole, if he did not satisfy it’s pain. Within a minute, half the bird was gone, nothing but bones on one side. Off in the distance, a small sound could be heard, slow, teady, padding on the ground. The sound becomes quicker. He looks in the distance, to find the source of the noise. Out of the darkness, walked a dog like creature, not quite a wolf, nor anything close to domestication. The animal walked closer, past the rocks, past the fire, straight in front of him. It looked straight into his eyes, completely calm, completely still. In hesitation, he took the fresh of the bird off of his stick, and fed it to this animal. A complete stranger to him, this beast. Normal men would never indulge in such a sacrifice. Most would of kept the meat for themselves, for survival. I don’t know why, but not him. Perhaps he saw something of himself in this wandering beast. And with what little sympathy that was left in this broken man, one of the few acts he could of made, was a kind one. 

The dog-like creature finished the bird, and walked back into the mists of twilight. With no way to extinguish the fire, he pulled out from under its source, and attempted to rid the flame of oxygen. This weakened the fire, however, did not kill it. He decided it was high time to slumber, once more. He laid his head back, and closed his eyes. He then opening his eyes, again to the blinding light. Something had changed, he struggled to pick himself up. He lifted his arm, which had lost almost all feeling. There imprinted, was a raging infected wound, as well as surrounding veins, which were beating heavily, pulsing from the body. His eye, bloodshot. He stood up, staggering to keep balance. He took a step forward, and fell over. Aggressively, he picked himself back up. Gritting his dry teeth while he did it.

Gazing upward into the horizon, everything was blurred, but bright. He saw in the distance, a figure, tall and dark. He leapt at the sight of it. Staggering his way over to it, disoriented, and fuzzy minded. The closer he got, the farther he realized it was. He moved faster, straining each drained leg forward. He suddenly felt solid ground beneath his feet. He jolted from the feeling, and fell over. Face first back onto the scorching pavement of the lone road. His whole body flared in this high temperature, reddening his skin, even further. Receiving the deepest of wounds, and burning right through his skin. He made no attempt to escape, for his body was too frail, too weakened. He gave up, and allowed the heat of the road, burn him into ashes. 

But in all the chaos, a figure approached the body, It was the dog like creature from before. It’s feet could withstand the high temperatures of the surrounding ground. It have him a sniff, and liightly bit the collar of his shirt, and it pulled him off of the road, back to his original spot. Perhaps this creature was repaying a debt, perhaps the differing backgrounds of the two had no meaning, the present was the only relevant factor. It then let him go, and the creature, was nowhere to be seen. Later he lightly opened his eyes, Not being completely aware of how he got off the road, he might of been bewildered. But then he smiled, and closed his eyes, one last time. For he had no vocal capacity left, it was lost long ago. So that day, no one could hear him cry out. Not in pain,

but in terror.