A journal of narrative writing.

In the mudflat we drank jaw to jaw the dog and I. Beyond the barren malachite hills were wells of water were starfruits and shade and fineboned faces of women serving roast beef seasoned with sprigs of rosemary and mint. But the twisted wind sanded our faces until darkness rose like the back of a beast. How far? How far? Under the soft shell of a moon our breaths plumed about us. We passed cacti and the blackened bones of trees that reached for our paws and feet. I didn't say lost but lost hung from the tongue of the dog. And then a light or maybe a sand sparkle or the white of a skull, anything to erase the direction of lost, any mirage of a map.