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Cold Desert

The wind howled a mournful tune as a lonely figure emerged from the entrance of a lavish hotel. He was clad in black from the top of his fedora-covered head to the bottom of his well-worn boots. His steps were slow and precise as if he were using every muscle in his body to prevent an inevitable fall. One hand held an uncovered bottle of Jesus water, three-fourths empty. The other held a leather-bound journal that appeared to be as old as he felt.

Jesus don’t love me. No one ever carried my load. I’m too young to feel this old.


The street before him was vacant. A desolate piece of land was also visible. To him, it seemed out of place; specifically situated for this moment in time. A lamppost opposite him flickered once, twice, and then turned off shrouding the land in darkness. The only source of light left was behind him at the hotel. His body made a move to turn back, but he found that he was incapable of moving. The terrain beckoned him forth. He stepped off the sidewalk and hypnotically walked towards the cold desert. Instead of going to the shining light, he stalked the darkness.

Everyone noticed. Everyone has seen the signs. I've always been known to cross lines,

The sound of his boots hitting the desert ground was the only noise that could be heard. He walked without knowing his destination. For just one instant, there was no logic behind his actions. There were no flashing lights or crowds of people; there was no harsh criticism or countless speculation. To an outsider, he was a drunken man wondering through the Arizona desert. To God, he was a lost soul stealing the night.

It's cold in the desert, water never sees the ground. Special,unspoken,without a sound.

The farther he got from the light, the farther he got from the strains of a life that was taking its toll on him. He had made a bargain with the devil: surrendering everything he was for a life of fame and wealth. The lips of his mouth tensed. The lids of his eyes closed. He stopped walking and raised the bottle in the air.

Here’s to you. Here’s to me. On to us. Nobody knows. Nobody sees. Nobody, but me.

Tears leaked and trailed down his face. He brought the bottle to his lips and let the liquid burn down his throat. It felt nice to feel the burn. He could taste the sweetness of the brew and the bitterness of his tears; the mixture was intoxicating.

I never ever cried when I was feeling down. I’ve always been scared of the sound.

He finished off the bottle and set it on the ground. His hand dug into his jean pocket and located a pen. He opened the journal. The clouds cleared away from the moon letting the moonlight illuminate the open page.

I'm on the corner waiting for a light to come on. That's when I know that you're alone.


He scribbled four lines down and closed the journal with an audible thud. He turned back towards the light and reluctantly made his way back.

You told me ya loved me, that I’d never die alone. Hand over your heart, lets go home.





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