jan-13 - Lochwinnoch Online

BadlandsIt stretched on forever. Boiled sandburned the soles of her feet and rosebetween her toes like the rising tide.Even in the dimming light of thefalling sun, the desert still tried toburn her alive. Everything ached.Normally she tanned so beautifully inthe sunlight but here she was burnedred. It stung like a swarm of beesmight, pinpoints stabbed gently intothe surface of the skin. The thinshirt, sleeves sodden with sweat,proved to be no defence against thesun.Little kept her moving now. Afterwalking so long with the pack on herback, it felt like her legs simplymoved against her own will.Pendulums attached to a clock, slow andmonotonous. The black nightdescended. Already her eyes wereflickering. Flicks of her black, hairswayed across her eyesight randomly.Sleepiness grasped her. She fell to herknees first. Then her backpack pushedher over, with all the weight of thetent inside it. She was asleep beforeshe had hit the sand, sending geysersof sand flying in clouds around her.Something called to her. Somethinginaudible and far into the distance,over the crest of the next sand dune.Picking herself up from her place onthe ground, she walked towards thesand dune on stronger legs,memories poured back into her mindfreely. When she reached the edge ofthe sand dune, she could hear thecall as a whisper.“Alice.”Her name over and over.“Alice.”Quiet against the night sky.“Alice.”A soft voice but deep and gruff atthe same time. Calming.“Alice.”It was only the call bringing draggingher farther up the sand dunecrawling, leaving hand prints andfoot prints behind.“Alice.”Standing at the top, she began to feelsleepy again. Becoming weaker. Thecall becoming louder and more frantic.“ALICE.”The cry haunted her. Frightening her.She began to shake uncontrollablyand erratically, not knowing wherethe shaking would take her. Then shefell. Falling into the sand again,awoke from this dream with, kickingand screaming against the sand .Something shook her violently, tryingto grasp her attention. Sand filled hernostrils and dried her mouth.“Calm down,” the soft, deep, gruffvoice said surprisingly calming.“It was…” Alice replied.A hand rested on her shoulder,“You’ve spent too long in my care.”If she were honest with herself, hiswould be the only care that shewould wish to be in. Casting heremerald eyes across his kneelingform, Alice looked into the face ofJoseph Thorpe. His mouth was adark curve against his dark skincomplexion. Three raking, open linesspeared down the front of his face,ugly healed scars. The top of hishead had been burned at birth andnow no hairs grew upon his baldhead. Rising, his ripped cloak flutteredslightly in the desert wind. Everythinghe wore was a dirtied shade of white.“Would you like to rest?” Thorpeasked her.Alice shook her head weakly andlooked up a Thorpe, “I’ve restedenough.” After the moments that shehad spent face down on the sand,she felt somewhat rejuvenated. Thefires that had burned around herankles were subdued and hermuscles appeared stronger. Stayinghere longer seemed inappropriate.Thorpe helped Alice to her feet. Toesburied in the sands cooled by thenight, welcomed after the days thatthey had walked in the blisteringheat. Rising above the dunes thatthey would have to climb, the mooncast its silvering light across theblackened sky turning their formsinto ghostly silhouettes. Stars dancedbeside the moon, gazing down at thetwo travellers on their journey acrossthe Badlands.Nothing grew here. They had to be self-sufficient to survive. Decades ago theplants stopped growing, those thatwere already living simply withered.Few animals thrived here but thosethat did were the hardest of all.Scorpions and snakes, feeding on thebirds that would stop for refuge onlyto have their lives swiftly ended. Noteven Humans were safe. It stilldisturbed her, the memory of seeingthe broken Human skeleton lyingdead and buried uncaringly in thesand. Lifeless eye-sockets staring ather with nothing but darkness.Through the sands, buildings buriedin a time forgotten peaked through.Weaving through these decrepit cities,they strode. Days appeared to blurtogether until the memories were one.It would not have mattered, everymemory was the same: Thorpeleading her through the desert with7CHATTERBOXChatterbox is produced anddistributed on behalf ofLochwinnoch Community Council,with support and financialassistance from local sponsors andadvertisers.Lochwinnoch CommunityCouncil welcomes all items forpossible inclusion for publication inprint, web or audio format or anyway as thought appropriate by theeditorial teamAll views are of individuals. TheEditor accepts no liability for errorsor statements and claims made insubmissions.no discernible destination in sight.Sometimes she even wondered whythey were making this pilgrimagethrough this place. Then sheremembered everything. She wantedto cry but the tears would only stingher burnt skin so she refrained,wiping her eyes with her palms.Her dry throat begged for water.Reaching for casket, she brought itto her dry parched lips and felt thelast droplets of water slip down herthroat. A dry tongue crept from hermouth seeking any droplet of watercaught on her rough skin.“Thorpe, I need water…” Alice did notcare for such courtesies as “please”.Sighing Thorpe pointed into thedistance. “We have three days left towalk until we can make it out of thebadlands. Three days without water.Do you think you can make it?”“I don’t know,” Alice cried out.“Thorpe… is… are we going to die here?”Thorpe looked into the distance,anxious to keep moving. “We might.”“That’s not comforting.”“What were you expecting? Everythingis going to be just fine and dandy?”A salty tear congealed on the precipiceof Alice’s eyelid. Her tongue reachedout to catch it, desperate for sustenance.“Get up,” Thorpe said, “Three days.That’s all.”Alice felt more comfortable travellingwith Thorpe yet there was nothingbetween them. Alice was unsure ifThorpe even cared for her. Thorpe wasonly a torch to her, nothing more. Aninanimate object. She carried the torchthrough the desert.Robbie WilliamsonRobbie won the Lochwinnoch Writers‘Young Writer’ prize 2012