While they cook, she
pours herself a cup of tea from the kettle on the other burner. Once the toast
jumps up from the machine, she quickly drops them onto the same plate as the
eggs, letting them fall where they may. She takes the plate and her cup and
walks out of the kitchen.
Chloe has lost her appetite. She considers pouring the
cereal down the drain, but thinks better of it. Instead, she puts the bowl and
the milk back in the fridge, just in case her mother is still hungry. She grabs
her bag and leaves.
•
The much anticipated Sunday arrives. Church with James…
Chloe is still uncertain if said anticipation is good or bad. Chloe wakes up,
showers off, and dresses like she does every other Sunday: in black. James says
absolutely nothing about it when he picks her up that morning.
•
Elsewhere, a man finds himself beside the roadway with the
sun beating down from overhead. Bone dry desert surrounds him on all sides and
apart from the freeway, almost everything is the same pale brown. A tumbleweed
rolls across the road. Waves of dirt and heat ripple over the asphalt. No
matter how long he walks, he never seems to get anywhere.
He has been wondering for some time now. Every day, it is
the same. He wakes up walking. He doesn’t remember going to sleep. He doesn’t
remember lying down or stopping to rest. He cannot recall where he is going, or
why. By the same token, he does have some foggy memories of passing out and
landing face first in the brittle dust. He knows he cannot be stopped. He knows
his journey is important.
He feels much like a robot—an automated shell of a man with
a single mission.
If only he could remember what the mission was…
He is alone, albeit the few scampering animals he meets
along the way, mostly scavenging for some sort of food. Two or three eye him
like a meal. Luckily, he remains conscious long enough to put safe distance
between them.
Once or twice, he passes an old, supposedly abandoned motel
on the side of the road. He has half a mind to stop. Perhaps there is water
inside. He does not thirst or hunger, not exactly, but he wants those two
luxuries none the less. Yet, a strange, persistent driving force compels him
ever onward.
His journey is not done. He must complete his journey!
He finds himself talking to no one, or more accurately to
himself, more often than he cares to admit. The heat and the isolation are
maddening. His throat is parched and his muscles ache. His feet throb with the
ceaseless stepping over the unforgiving terrain. Rolling hills and vast barren
lands are in front and behind him now.
Where is this place?
He longs to meet another living soul—somebody he could talk
to perhaps, someone to accompany him on his quest. Divulge his location. He
wonders how he got here.
The only thing he knows for certain is his name, Patrick
Taylor .
There is no way to keep track of the time or count the days
that pass in the endless cycle of sun and sand. One afternoon, a miracle
happens. Big, billowing thunderheads roll in overhead. They crack and rumble,
churning together in a darkening mass, bringing with them the scent of rain and
the satisfaction of water. Patrick crests a hill, drenched.
As if by magic, he sees a town in the valley below, spanning
a great many miles. He can see cars on the road and lighted windows.
Civilization. He is saved, or so he believes. Was he ever even in danger of
dying?
The instant he sets foot within the city limits, a deluge of
memories flood back to the rain soaked blond. One name resonate with him:
Chloe.
He has to find her! That is why he is here!
Everything he has endured and persevered through has led up
to this point, this singular defining moment. It does not matter to him how
enormous the town is, or how impossible it could be to find his quarry among
the many citizens. He knows she is here. He knows within the very marrow of his
bones that she dwells in this place.
This is his duty.
This is his purpose.
•
Chloe and
pours herself a cup of tea from the kettle on the other burner. Once the toast
jumps up from the machine, she quickly drops them onto the same plate as the
eggs, letting them fall where they may. She takes the plate and her cup and
walks out of the kitchen.
Chloe has lost her appetite. She considers pouring the
cereal down the drain, but thinks better of it. Instead, she puts the bowl and
the milk back in the fridge, just in case her mother is still hungry. She grabs
her bag and leaves.
•
The much anticipated Sunday arrives. Church with James…
Chloe is still uncertain if said anticipation is good or bad. Chloe wakes up,
showers off, and dresses like she does every other Sunday: in black. James says
absolutely nothing about it when he picks her up that morning.
•
Elsewhere, a man finds himself beside the roadway with the
sun beating down from overhead. Bone dry desert surrounds him on all sides and
apart from the freeway, almost everything is the same pale brown. A tumbleweed
rolls across the road. Waves of dirt and heat ripple over the asphalt. No
matter how long he walks, he never seems to get anywhere.
He has been wondering for some time now. Every day, it is
the same. He wakes up walking. He doesn’t remember going to sleep. He doesn’t
remember lying down or stopping to rest. He cannot recall where he is going, or
why. By the same token, he does have some foggy memories of passing out and
landing face first in the brittle dust. He knows he cannot be stopped. He knows
his journey is important.
He feels much like a robot—an automated shell of a man with
a single mission.
If only he could remember what the mission was…
He is alone, albeit the few scampering animals he meets
along the way, mostly scavenging for some sort of food. Two or three eye him
like a meal. Luckily, he remains conscious long enough to put safe distance
between them.
Once or twice, he passes an old, supposedly abandoned motel
on the side of the road. He has half a mind to stop. Perhaps there is water
inside. He does not thirst or hunger, not exactly, but he wants those two
luxuries none the less. Yet, a strange, persistent driving force compels him
ever onward.
His journey is not done. He must complete his journey!
He finds himself talking to no one, or more accurately to
himself, more often than he cares to admit. The heat and the isolation are
maddening. His throat is parched and his muscles ache. His feet throb with the
ceaseless stepping over the unforgiving terrain. Rolling hills and vast barren
lands are in front and behind him now.
Where is this place?
He longs to meet another living soul—somebody he could talk
to perhaps, someone to accompany him on his quest. Divulge his location. He
wonders how he got here.
The only thing he knows for certain is his name, Patrick
Taylor .
There is no way to keep track of the time or count the days
that pass in the endless cycle of sun and sand. One afternoon, a miracle
happens. Big, billowing thunderheads roll in overhead. They crack and rumble,
churning together in a darkening mass, bringing with them the scent of rain and
the satisfaction of water. Patrick crests a hill, drenched.
As if by magic, he sees a town in the valley below, spanning
a great many miles. He can see cars on the road and lighted windows.
Civilization. He is saved, or so he believes. Was he ever even in danger of
dying?
The instant he sets foot within the city limits, a deluge of
memories flood back to the rain soaked blond. One name resonate with him:
Chloe.
He has to find her! That is why he is here!
Everything he has endured and persevered through has led up
to this point, this singular defining moment. It does not matter to him how
enormous the town is, or how impossible it could be to find his quarry among
the many citizens. He knows she is here. He knows within the very marrow of his
bones that she dwells in this place.
This is his duty.
This is his purpose.
•
Chloe and
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