echoes in the emptiness

A lonely cowboy and his trusty steed navigate the deserts. Sands swallow dips and bends in the ancient-looking, crack-riddled asphalt – a black carpet uncoiling infinitely – the only sign that others have been here before, and that there is something beyond. Tumbleweed is blown about by the howling winds. In the distance, shimmering in the haze born from a furious sun, a lone cabin. Boarded up and left to wither in the vastness of the barren ocean around it. A wry smile sneaks its way into the expression on the cowboy’s face. His mount twitches uncharacteristically, in anticipation. It has been here before. So has he.

As he nears the dilapidation, he catches a glimpse of a faded board. The little remaining paint proclaims the identity of the abandoned habitation. Our friend dismounts and wipes away some of the grime that covers the board. It does little to improve the visibility of the inscription. He takes off his hat and hangs it on the post that holds up the board. The air carries sounds of nothing but its own motion. A sign of the desolation inherent to the situation.

Our friend is tired. But he is impatient. He digs furiously for a few moments, and finally produces a claw-peened hammer from his satchel. With deftness, and a certain familiarity, he quickly does away with the timbers that guard the entrance to the dwelling. He steps inside to find everything as he left it. Except for a fine layer of dust that hasn’t spared any surface.

He sets himself down gently on the single piece of furniture inside. A sturdy, straight-back wooden chair that is right in the center of the room. A light-shade hangs over it, barely high enough to keep him from knocking his head against it as he sits down. The light still works. He reaches for the flask in the pocket on the inside of his vest. He reclines a little, careful not to reach a position in which he would be blinded by the light. The drink is refreshing. He closes his eyes. He will sit here and reminisce his adventures.

A lonely cowboy and his trusty steed navigate the deserts. Sands swallow dips and bends in the ancient-looking, crack-riddled asphalt, a black carpet uncoiling infinitely. The only sign that others have been here before, and that there is something beyond. Tumbleweed is blown about by the howling winds. In the distance, shimmering in the haze born from a furious sun, a lone cabin. Boarded up and left to wither in the vastness of the barren ocean around it. A faint smile sneaks its way into the expression on the cowboy’s face. His mount twitches uncharacteristically, in anticipation. It has been here before. So has he.

As he nears the dilapidation, he catches a glimpse of a faded board. The little remaining paint proclaims the identity of the abandoned habitation. Our friend dismounts and wipes away some of the grime that covers the board. It does little to improve the visibility of the inscription. He takes off his hat and hangs it on the post that holds up the board. The air carries nothing but sounds of its own motion.

Our friend is tired. But he is impatient. He digs around furiously for a few moments, and finally produces a claw-peened hammer from his satchel. With deftness, and a certain familiarity, he quickly does away with the timbers that guard the entrance to the dwelling. He steps inside to find everything as he left it. Except for a fine layer of dust that hasn’t spared any surface.

He sets himself down gently on the single piece of furniture inside. A sturdy, straight-back wooden chair that is right in the center of the room. A light-shade hangs over it, barely high enough to keep him from knocking his head against it as he sits down. The light still works. He reaches for the flask in the pocket on the inside of his vest. He reclines a little, careful not to reach a position in which he would be blinded by the light. The drink is refreshing. He closes his eyes. He will sit here and reminisce his adventures.

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