Post by Rocton on Jul 24, 2011 2:44:04 GMT -5
The heat. Unbearable. The stress. Immeasurable. Yet there he was, sitting on the dunes, as comfortable as a gecko baking in the sun.
This was home, to Rocton. The hot sun pounding the white cloak that covered his black tux and now shaggy unkempt hair, the pistol, resting in his palm, silent, ready, for nothing, for everything, and the nice cold soda bottle, now empty after being chugged in less than three seconds, balanced on his bent knee.
Some would call anyone who liked spending time out in the desert alone staring out at sand for any lenght of time mad, and yeah, perhaps it was, but the peacefulness of it all. Irrefutable.
Here there was no noisy teachers, no children running up and down the streets, no class. Only a timeless view and sounds of sand riding the occasional winds with the tumbleweeds following as closely behind as possible, and the sun laughing.
Here Rocton sat and remembered, he remembered it all, and he wondered why he liked spending times in such places, even if it almost killed him in more than one occasion. The only way he could explain it was much the same as a sea captain once explained his love of the sea to Rocton.
"The sea is like one of them highborn Spanish ladies: ye love her but ye can't trust her. One minute she's as placid as a sea-cow and yer sailin along as easy as kiss-my-hand, evory leaning on the rail and spitting to leeward; the next she throws a hurricane at ye, and yer running as if all the hounds of hell was on your trail swearing that if ye gets out of this alive ye'll never set foot on a boat again.
But ye always do go back to her, see? Because, despite her bein an untrustworthy, ungrateful, murderous wench and all, ye bloody well do love her, more than ye love life itself."
In this brief moment, as Rocton laughed a bit at his memory of the wise captain, the bottle on his knee caught a passing wind and fell. Rolling down the dune, it hit a rock, or what Rocton thought was a rock, which actually turned out to be a sleeping snake, not too happy at the early wake up call it had received.
It hissed angrily at Rocton, who immediately stopped smiling and raised Sally slowly. The snake moved first, a bullet was shot, heads of small reptiles were asploded, and Rocton, he pulled out another soda from his bag as the laughing sun began to set.
"To every Spanish lady that's ever tried to kill me" he said as he pulled the bottle up towards the view of the cheerful sun and drank.
This was home, to Rocton. The hot sun pounding the white cloak that covered his black tux and now shaggy unkempt hair, the pistol, resting in his palm, silent, ready, for nothing, for everything, and the nice cold soda bottle, now empty after being chugged in less than three seconds, balanced on his bent knee.
Some would call anyone who liked spending time out in the desert alone staring out at sand for any lenght of time mad, and yeah, perhaps it was, but the peacefulness of it all. Irrefutable.
Here there was no noisy teachers, no children running up and down the streets, no class. Only a timeless view and sounds of sand riding the occasional winds with the tumbleweeds following as closely behind as possible, and the sun laughing.
Here Rocton sat and remembered, he remembered it all, and he wondered why he liked spending times in such places, even if it almost killed him in more than one occasion. The only way he could explain it was much the same as a sea captain once explained his love of the sea to Rocton.
"The sea is like one of them highborn Spanish ladies: ye love her but ye can't trust her. One minute she's as placid as a sea-cow and yer sailin along as easy as kiss-my-hand, evory leaning on the rail and spitting to leeward; the next she throws a hurricane at ye, and yer running as if all the hounds of hell was on your trail swearing that if ye gets out of this alive ye'll never set foot on a boat again.
But ye always do go back to her, see? Because, despite her bein an untrustworthy, ungrateful, murderous wench and all, ye bloody well do love her, more than ye love life itself."
In this brief moment, as Rocton laughed a bit at his memory of the wise captain, the bottle on his knee caught a passing wind and fell. Rolling down the dune, it hit a rock, or what Rocton thought was a rock, which actually turned out to be a sleeping snake, not too happy at the early wake up call it had received.
It hissed angrily at Rocton, who immediately stopped smiling and raised Sally slowly. The snake moved first, a bullet was shot, heads of small reptiles were asploded, and Rocton, he pulled out another soda from his bag as the laughing sun began to set.
"To every Spanish lady that's ever tried to kill me" he said as he pulled the bottle up towards the view of the cheerful sun and drank.