Migrated from original creative writing blog from 2018. Excerpt from “DA”.
The rider had seen Eshadria, the smaller of the twin suns, alone in the sky only once before—a sight that presaged only despair, its companion sun already dipped below the horizon, lost somewhere beyond the sea. Now, its solitary light bathed the floor of his ramshackle hut in a desolate glow. Golden rays, thin and diffused, danced upon the crimson dust of the dead world beyond his doorstep. His shoulders slumped, the weight of countless days pressing down on him. Each breath felt like a struggle. That seemed to be all this place offered: despair and the slow extinguishing of light beneath the encroaching veil. A perpetual penance paid to the Mother, the world’s ancient deity, for centuries of forgotten sins.
Squinting against the fading light, he gazed towards the distant Maheydara mountains. Eshadria rested upon their jagged crests, half-hidden by the darkened peaks, a defiant ember raging against the approaching shadow. Between the sharp spires and beneath the oppressive, toxic clouds, it cast its last, weak light. Oh, how it struggled to shine. He drew a deep breath through the tattered scarf that covered his face, the dry fabric rasping against his skin. He could almost feel the dying star’s phantom warmth prickling his exposed skin.
Closing his eyes, he forced himself to remember why he must endure, why survival was paramount. He had to find them. He would not rest until he had found some trace of them, some answer to the void they had left behind. In the theater of his mind, he saw them with startling clarity. They were out there, somewhere. He lifted his right hand, reaching towards the fading star, towards the phantom faces of loved ones. As he did, a small bracelet with a brass elephant charm emerged from beneath the frayed fringe of his glove and sleeve. Tiny rays of reflected light flickered across the cracked glass of his goggles, momentarily distracting him from the spectral figures he sought. The faces of the family that had been stolen from him.
Pensively, he admired the small trinket, such an insignificant object tied to such profound memories. Turning his hand towards the sky, he covered the bracelet with his left hand, shielding it from the dying light. An unexpected calm washed over him. He reached deep within himself, summoning a renewed sense of resolve. The wind whispered softly in his ears, a mournful dirge, “There is nothing left here, only dust and shadows.”
With a weary groan, he swung a heavy leg over the saddle of his grouler, the battered, sun fuse-gas vehicle creaking beneath his weight. He flipped the ignition switch, breathing life into the ancient machine. The grouler, like all machines in this desolate world, relied on the sun’s energy to sustain its metal body. It had basked long enough, absorbing the last vestiges of Eshadria’s light, enough to take him where he needed to go. “If you can fight just a little longer, old friend,” he whispered into the still air, his voice barely audible, a silent plea directed towards the fading star, “I need you to be my guide.”
He clenched his knees against the machine’s chassis and pressed hard on the accelerator. He accelerated, the grouler’s wheels spitting crimson dust as he sped into the wasteland. He would ride hard against the encroaching darkness, leaving only a trail of swirling red dust in his wake, a desperate plea against the silence of the dead world.