Death Valley


  The vultures circled overhead, cra-kawing above as they waited impatiently for him to die. The sun beat down a wicked throng of fat, inescapable heat and he felt himself cook, his flesh sizzling in the shimmering air like strips of red bacon. His mouth would water at the thought if he had the moisture to spare.

  The Mojave had no mercy. It couldn’t even muster the compassion to send a curious coyote into Death Valley to put a quick end to the slow job it started. The vultures could sense it was close, their feast but a few moments away. 

~ by Joseph Blame on January 29, 2011.

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