The Desert

Cast from the vessels as quickly they had been boarded with nothing but wits and youth; the cold sands soften the impact of the fortunate. This dark wasteland cares not, just as those before have conditioned it to be so. It demands survival, to falter in surviving is to be shunned. “Fortune, matters not.” echoes from the ivory towers stricken in golden inlay, punctuated by the hyena-like laughter of the madmen residing therein.

Crawl, it is the only option, as the sands thirst and have begun to siphon time, that of which the overseers of this desolation claim ownership. All directions lead uphill, the insatiable sands cascade down into our pits the harder we climb, carrying us back down. The pits fill, closing the gap between the slack and crest of the dune, however, further burying ourselves paradoxically in progress.

Marble beneath the sands, remnants of the old wold become footholds for the fortunate. One may seek the stones, but may never return if unsuccessful. Those who do not perish, have the privilege to sit atop the sand, content to simply no longer sink or may crest the dune by way of the stones. Upon this perch, the tower bases show themselves. Oases surround each one, the promise of recompense for our debts to the sand. Nubs of solid ground dot the landscape, unreliable pathways to the towers in the far-distance.

Trekking through, drained of one’s indebted time, the time necessary to progress; pushing through the adversity of the oppressive atmosphere. Years, decades pass. Is one approaching the towers or are the towers growing farther away? It is difficult to tell. The only sustenance along the way, provided by plants far and away from the rocks, cost precious time for the opportunity to obtain but a morsel.

The emaciated, poor souls of which had lost their footing grow more dense further into the journey. Fear and disgust outweigh the willingness to render aid, “What of me, what of my fruits?” one may ask at the prospect of a detour from the path to elevate the sinking masses even if only a fraction of a fraction of fruit may be required to satiate and empower them.

Finally, the prize is in sight. Only a few steps left. At the entrance, a doorman presides over an empty archway, the oasis of the tower, a pebble’s toss away. They motion to empty our pockets. Some of us discover we possess trinkets, the old world seemingly choosing at random. The doorman calls forward the bearers and they pass through. As the rest approach the doorman pays no mind. No warning, nor admonishment. Inching further and further until at the edge of the entryway. Empty-handed, with one final step we have-nots are pulled through.

The oasis, is no longer as it was once seen. The flora and clear waters deteriorate into mold and stagnant, putrid ponds. The trinket bearers climb the tower, unabated whilst the brambles cut off any hope of escape for the remainder. One, singular fruitful tree remains in the revolting bog. It seems one has quickly lain claim to it, picking clean every fruit, every premature bud, every leaf from every branch until nothing is left to be gathered.

Once again, left to sink. What used to be sand, replaced with the foul marsh of the tower’s refuse. Clawing at the edges of the bog, the new pastime. the one who took the opportunity of greed retains enough strength to climb up and lord over. He shuns the people of which did not make it to the tree, disdain and fear in his eyes as he crushes the last of the fruit unwittingly in his iron grasp. Is this what fate it was for whom stumbled on their way? What irony.

Perhaps the blessed ones were the bearers? Not so, as they are tossed from the tower by their believed-to-be benefactors, their blood, splattered about upon hitting the ground, drunk up by the land, the remainder of their time taken in an instant. Fruits begin to sprout from the plants of the desert once more. “Fortune, matters not.” the sentiment bellows from the towers again. The lone, sad man clinging to the pulp of their destroyed fruits falls to their knees and laughs hysterically as it sets in.

What of the denizens of the dune pits? From which everything started? They sit tall enough to see and be thankful to have not fallen into the trap of chance. Biding their time and saving their strength for a more favorable change in the landscape. More vessels approach, more souls to be dumped upon the land, however, this time, with a helping hand.