• Colin Smith


Crawling on hands and feet, my lips swollen with thirst. The gritty sand feels like needles to my worn flesh. I pull my arms in agony; my body slowly slides forward a few inches. The desert sun is like a furnace to my burned head. I feel like I’m made of brick, not a drop of moisture in my body. Each breath is a gasp of pain as the dry, hot, rough air scrapes its way down my parched throat. Slowly, I slide to the top of another dune. My mind screams, “This is the last one, I cannot go on, but I don’t want to die here!” Inspiration? What is it?


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  • Colin Smith

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