Time Passes slowly. The fan turns lazily, and makes gentle swishing noises. The air is hot, dry, and still, save for the dust motes. They float down like feathers from an angel's wing.
A hot breeze makes it way through the bar, stirring up sand in the doorway. A tumble weed, the only movement outside, rolls lethargically down the dirt road.
I pour another drink. Whiskey is my favorite. It burns. I savor the sensation of it falling down my throat. No one else is here. Just me, the red dirt, and my bottle of whiskey.
The counter is dusty. I draw round pictures on the once beautiful black surface. Dust mounts up and resists my fingertips.
Why am I here? I wonder as I grind a peanut shell under my toe. It's not like I HAVE to be... I could leave any time.
I sigh and light a ciggarette as the fan continues it's dreamy circles. Puffs of greyish smoke floats slowly up to the cieling.
I rub my thumb and forefinger together to rid them of the dust. It falls in chunks to the floor.
I stand, brushing off my dusty jeans, and make my way out of the empty bar and onto the street.
A dust storm blows in the distance as I turn onto Milky Way, and hop into the doorway of the Hereanthere Inn.
A drop of sweat beads up on my forehead, and drops to the ground near my boot. It mixes with the red dust, and forms a dish of clay. I kick it, and it soars into the middle of the street, causing a little puff of dust to rise in it's wake.
I snub out my cig on the door jamb of the inn. It leaves a little black pock-mark on the red trimming.
...The doorway was white. The mayor had just announced the opening of the Hereanthere Inn. People were laughing, setting off rockets...
A loud crash shakes me out of my revery, and I duck instinctivly. I glance cautiously out of the doorway. The old general store has collapsed. Timbers stick out of it like hellish spires. The store has finally died.
Turning away from the store, satisfied there is nothing to threaten me, I kick in the door to the inn. I walk in, and wander about the halls. Some of the doors are open, and bad smells drift out. I avoid bad smells. You learn to sometimes, the hard way.
Door #17. That sounds promising. One solid kick, and a cloud of dust spreads under the weight of the newly-fallen door. I give a light sniff...Smells alright. I wander in. The 'do not disturb' sign rests on the floor. My foot prints are on it.
A couple lies snuggled on the bed, peacefully sleeping. I wave cheerfully at the newly-weds, but they stay sleeping.
I check out the mini-fridge...Peices of white cake, some champagne. I take the drink, and grab some cake while I'm at it. They won't mind. I leave the love-birds to their sleep. Lord knows they deserve it.
I leave the inn with my find. No one stops me. I am God here.
...I follow the rockets with my eyes. They're my favorite. They burst in pretty colors, just like flowers after a rain. People are ooo-ing and ah-ing at the colors, and a man points to one of the rockets. I look in the direction he points, waiting for the pretty lights...
A big bird lands on my shoulder. I shake it off. They're very unpleasant. All squak and scream. They make me mad, so I hurl my whiskey bottle at one. It jumps out of the way clumsily. The bottle hits the cart-horse on the head. The horse doesn't seem to mind. He is sleeping, too.
I glance at the ground. My shadow is directly underneath me. The sun must be at it's highest. I look up.
...I look up and see a little white dot in the sky. It's not one of our rockets. Papa looks upset. He says he thinks it came from the Blue Star. I gaze into the perfect pink sky, and rest my sight on the Blue Star. It's very pretty. One day I will go there, but Papa says it's impossible. He says no one can breathe on the Blue Star. He says it's too hot for any life to survive there. I don't believe him, even though he studies the Blue Star. It's very pretty though, all blue and white. Papa takes me off of his shoulders. He tells me to run to the bar. I run...
Sitting at the bar again, I munch thoughtfully on a peice of cake. My bed is under the counter, where it has been since Inn Day. Papa never came to get me. Maybe he will today.
I settle down on my bed-pile, exausted. It's very hot. Papa will come, and when he does, I'll show him how I can get to the Blue Star. I sleep, knowing he'll come soon.
...The inn was new. It was painted white. There were color-rockets. I liked them the best. One of the rockets wasn't ours. It was from the Blue Star. It was pretty. Papa told me to run, so I did. I saw a bright light...