In The dunes
I stood in a sea of sand spreading for miles under my torn boots. A scarf wrapped around my neck, my mouth, my nose and my hair, so that only my eyes squinted out. I choked briefly on the moist scarf— a result of my quickened breath from the climb up to the top of the dune—until I hurriedly pulled it down beneath my chin. I choked again, now on dry air as it scratched the back of my throat. But I had no time to take a sip from my canteen. Instead I squinted across the vast ocean of glass, which, reflecting so earnestly the heated skies, shimmered like a mass of yellow water. There at my horizon, between the mirages and the dusty formations, I saw what I earnestly hoped would not be there. A dark mass ripped a path through the desert.
I was being followed.