A/N - I wrote this short story for my English class. Our task was to write poetry, I succeeded in writing a poetic short story. I took inspiration from MOPI - written from Mike's POV, but no names are used.
The Wanderer
The desert stretches into the distance. A flat expanse of sand broken only sparingly by the few shrubs brave enough to grow in the harsh sun. It beats down from overhead, flooding the view in a golden glow. The endless road, as black as night, cuts a path through the wilderness. This pace is deserted except for one lone soul who lingers on the never-ending blacktop. His footfalls are the only noise to disturb the almost deafening silence. The tar, sticky from the heat, blackens the soles of his worn in sneakers. He scans the horizon. Still no change in the landscape. The desert remains as empty as it has been for hours.
The blue sky above, unmarred by clouds, tells a story of a hot summer day. Below he continues to wander through the endless desert. There is still no end in sight but his footsteps are sure, determined. Done with a purpose. The blank, staring road ahead beckons. He moves through the sweltering heat, continuing on his seemingly pointless journey. His eyes, as clear and blue as the sky, do not betray any doubt that he is moving in the wrong direction. However, it still seems to him that this road will never end.
A glimmer on the horizon just below the skyline captures his interest. A reflection of the sun perhaps, but reflecting on what. It is still too early to hope for rescue, but his footfalls stop nonetheless. A shining beam of light blinds him, his heart flutters. A noise has fallen upon his well-tuned ears. Could it be the sound of a friendly motor that will help him on his way?
The noise travels closer, moving swiftly. The shape of a motorcycle, a person perched on top, creates a shadow of darkness against the blinding white of the sun. His heart leaps as the breaks squeal, the bike skidding to a stop, leaving a long mark on the previously clean blacktop. The figure turns to face him, it beckons him with a flick of its wrist. He moves forward hesitantly. The bike will take him back to where he came from, but if he came from nowhere and is going nowhere, does it really matter? The decision is made. He hops onto the bike. Anything is better than here in this hot wasteland of endless desert.
The bike roars to life beneath him, snarling like a wild animal. It shoots forward. The wind in his face, his hair, his clothes. The desert rushes past, the landscape becoming blurred. The bike is taking him away from the place where the sun always shines and the road never ends. He doesn't know where he is going, but it's better this way. Now he will have a new place to explore. He is, after all, a wanderer.