Under the Sun

The man's throat ached. It's true his legs and feet also hurt. Hell, the only thing his body felt was pain. But it was his throat that hurt the most. He looked up at the sun, which seamed to grow larger and more menacing with each step he took. The man tried to imagine what he looked like now, how he would appear to anyone who passed by. But of course no one would pass by him here. He was going to die. He knew it, the pain in his throat told him all that he needed to know. He looked up, skywards, but not directly at it. "Fuck you" He said.
"I beg your pardon?" The Sun said, it's voice sonorous, reverberating through the air.
"I said Fuck You!" The man said louder. Loud enough for the sun to hear.
"Well it's not my fault." The sun said, somewhat crestfallen.
"I know." The man replied. "You're just the only one here and I need to vent."
"It's not my fault you tried to rob Johnny Rock's stash."
"Motherfucker was cutting me out. I had a get a piece for my self."
"Yes, but you remember Cliff?" The sun asked.
"Yeah, what about him."
"They did the same thing to him. If you walked the other way you would've found his bones." The sun smirked at his dark humor, dry as the desert wasteland.
The man continued walking. Hoping against hope that with each dune he climbed he would find an oasis or civilization or a way out of the sands. It was always the same when he reached the top, just the blinding dissonance of the desert laid out before him.


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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'The Sun'.