Promises and Lies

Chapterete 1

My bike broke down in the middle of Arizona, interstate 17, about five miles from the state penitentiary. Not five minutes standing still and the heat hit me like a hammer. Arizona in the summertime doesn't have heat, it has pressure. Every part of your body is pressed on every side by the burning air. I would have run, damned the bike laid rail, but the consuming heat evaporated that possibility. But lying next to my beloved Ducati wasn't going to get me anywhere, so I set out on foot. I didn't maintain much hope; even before the bike broke down I'd had the road to myself for a long time.

I finally came to rest in the shadow of a sign saying: "Warning State Penitentiary. Do Not Stop For Hitchhikers," and felt despair overcome me. A vampire could have covered the distance between here and phoenix in under 2 hours, running all the way, burning heat or not. But I was not a vampire, and I was trying not to think like that anymore. 5 years living with an inferiority complex had been enough, and I was trying to climb out of my self esteem hole. I resigned myself to walking after a tiny rest, and took a sip from my bottle. The…liquid was soothing on my throat, but I knew it couldn't last. You can't carry milk for long in the Arizona heat, nor blood, and what I was drinking was a mixture of both.

I'd gotten the idea from a special on Massai tribes in Africa. Some found it disgusting. I think water's disgusting.

The Milk helped me focus, and with my thirst abated I began to take stock. Clearly conservation had to be the new game, my best planed would be to go to ground. To find some shade, and wait for nightfall when I might be able to run. Of course, the desert isn't about heat, it's about moisture, and I knew that the night would probably be very cold. But cold didn't bother me.

I resolved to follow the highway into the hills, and bury myself in a patch of shade until night.

As I walked into the hills I began to make out a strange sight, hidden before by the highway's mirage. Sitting under a beach umbrella, in a camp chair, looking for all the world like he was having a pleasant little outing was a well muscled man. As I approached I watched him sip a beer, as if he were basking on the seashore, instead of a trash littered highway in 126 degree heat. I couldn't then, and haven't since been able to place his age at anything other than "older".

He skin was tan and weather beaten, his arms and legs looked like wooden cords, thick and strong in a way you can't get just from working out. He had a body that said hard labor, and when he smiled at my approach his smile said "dental work". His eyes crinkled as he looked up and me and he quickly turned and found a camp stool.

I sat.

He reached into a cooler and handed me a beer, I took it and drank.

The alcohol doesn't provide any nourishment to my system, but it does everything else it's supposed to. Besides I learned to drink on the Quileute res, after that there's nothing my system can't handle.

He didn't say a word, and I was grateful for that much. My mother and father never needed me to talk, and after that I never could figure out how to talk to normal people. Instead we sat in silence, watching the road, and the country around us. Most people think of the Southwest as a barren wasteland. I did myself before I had seen it. The air is clear there, clearer than you can believe. When you look out at the scrub and the sandstone you can see for miles and miles and miles through the blue air. The desert teams with life as well, and even though we weren't in real saguaro country a couple of cacti stuck out of a carpet of sage and scrub. A lone hawk circled. My eyes, stronger than a normal human's, could pick out signs of mice and insects whispering under the shade. A coyote tiptoed through the scrub, a half mile off, looking for anything dead.

After nearly an hour of sitting in silence my companion decided to break the ice,

"Phoenix" It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded, being careful to keep my thoughts neutral. My mind is an open book to anyone around me. I have the ability to broadcast my thoughts and feelings to those in range. Regular humans aren't very sensitive to it, so it's easier around them. Extra normal creatures aren't. As superpowers go it's more of a super liability, something an author might dream up to solve a storytelling problem. If you think it sounds nice, imagine letting an entire household in on your wet-dream, or telling your extended family about your split-second fantasy about your cousin. I try and keep my thoughts under heavy control and it's easier when I don't have to talk.

"We can give you a ride I think." He paused, and then said, "yeah, we"

I must have been broadcasting my confusion. Dammit.

We sat in silence for awhile longer before my strange companion started putting away the parasol, throwing our empty bottles in a trash bag, and generally striking camp. It was only as I looked around in confusion that I realized I had been hearing the sound of a truck for the last several minutes.

I looked back at the old man, and then quickly away again, trying to hide the blush that was quickly spreading across my face. He had stripped down to his shorts and was quickly bundling his clothes and packing them away. I hadn't noticed until now, because he was wearing a white shirt, but his pants were a bright orange. He was a convict, for chrissakes. An escaped convict, just sitting next to the road.

Authors Notes

Comments appreciated. Should you wish to take issue with character persona's and actions I would welcome input, input that does not fit the format (------would never do that.) If you can back up your claim, please write, if not you will be ignored.

As this is a work in progress I would like comments on form, personal identification, and style. I have attempted to replicate Mrs Meyers rambling and incoherent style. Her inability to choose a tense, her rambling chain of events, and most of all her strange disdain for actual dialog. While I am having fun replicating said style I would be willing to abandon it should the story become popular enough that people actually want a coherent story.

As well, should your questions address the concept of "true love" (yes I have put it in quotes) please refrain. The summary says "Realistic." If people could fall in true love and never have relationship problems again, our divorce rate wouldn't be so high, and our homicide rate would be cut in half.

Any comments directly related to these notes, and the opinions contained within will be ignored for the pointless drivel they surely are.