Sunday, February 27, 2011


The barefooted tracker half-squatted, half-kneeled, the tips of the weird artistic dangly crocheted what's-its attached to the front of her shirt lightly brushing the ground.  She ran her fingertips through the rough grains of sand, squinted into the distance, and wet her parched lips with her tongue before speaking

"Someone came this way two-- no, two-and-a-half hours ago.  He traveled alone and he traveled swiftly.  But I know a shortcut.  If we start now, we can head him off at the old pass."

1 comment:

  1. I love your writing should write a book! I would definitely read it.