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Saturday, September 3, 2011

Prompt: Words given: Stew glutton desert colony philosophy elixir savvy nirvana

From a group meeting, Jan. 14, 2010. It's words given to us this time. "20 minutes, use as many as you may...write." :)

   Of all the places on earth, the biplane had to crash land in the desert. Walking was not an option in a day of 120 degrees heat. The night at 98 felt like nirvana for this Scottish man. His white skin began matching his face's growing rusty bristles. Usually soft, the beard now felt like thorns. Thorns of a cactus he lusted to see, as perhaps water or meat under its skin could be had.
  His mind began to drift, looking for palms and an oasis heard within stories of youth. His mind questioned to remember--were they fables or truths? Could there be hope or was it certain death? How far off course had the sand storm put him?

  The first night was frightful. Feeling decreasing sanity and bewilderment, he thought of squeezing his socks to drink his own perspiration--something else he had heard stories about. He sipped from his canteen, each spoonful measured and received as an elixir from the Gods.

  "You're a glutton for punishment. This serves your death, sir." He heard words ring in his ears.  Yes, this is what she would say in her madness to him if she could see him now.

  However, the Scot genteelly spoke, quietly and precisely to the illusion of his lover clearly envisioned in his mind. "My lady, my philosophy has always been and always will be that life is an adventure to be lived deeply through each season, with passion and salt. Salt to season, as within the most delicious stew from lambs meat, fresh garden carrots the color of the setting sun, potatoes infused by the earth's calming nutrients, and onions where in the core is the pearl." By the end, he muttered to himself with a slight smile.

  The man, now lost of his savvy presences of surrounding riches, sat under the plane's wing, looking at his reserve canteen and dried beef. He spoke up. "Not the combination I need nor want now. Not salt to make me more thirsty, not toughness to make me chew harder, ah, but a dreary reminder-- Instead of salt of the earth to nourish myself, it is but salt in my wounds I feel, cut open from this treacherous twist of fate. I will not to win at crossing the desert, yet lose the prize, lose the game, and perhaps my life.... and Rebecca.

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