#floodreturn

WRITING PORTFOLIO

the girl doesn’t belong here.

that much is obvious, in clothing ill-suited to the harsh winds of shidiya, stumbling about with no discernible purpose. no, that is not right. all wanderers had a purpose. they would claw and shift and wade through seas of burning desert, with nothing to show for it but grains of sand lodged beneath their fingernails. stuck to their cheeks, atop their eyelids.

it always ends the same way.

“she will die without help.” a phrase softly spoken. both promise and observation.

her leader says nothing in response, only the stillness of his face, shaded beneath his head scarf.

nahal looks back to the barren horizon, the girl little more than a pinprick amidst dunes of burnt umber and black. in a few hours’ time, her body would find home in the sand. the flesh will swell underneath the sun, a plum, over ripened and set to burst. sticky. rotten. but elder eman has always said that the desert is greedy. the body will never rupture, for the sand gulps the water down, the blood, the life, as though it was the one that was parched. and there the body will lie, preserved.

a short sigh to her right calls her attention. there is something unknowable in her leader’s gaze. though, perhaps that is unfair. nahal has long abandoned her attempts to unravel the hidden script held within him. she trusts him with her life. has trusted him. will trust him.

he does not glance in her direction. “go.”

even if she has never found pity in his eyes.

reaching the girl is as simple as breaking off from their path and urging her camel forward. yet still, she keeps her distance. the dagger sheathed against her thigh, hidden underneath her dress, is a welcome comfort. she does not dismount when she addresses her.

“hello.” nahal tilts her head at the girl. “what are you doing here?” there is dried blood on your neck.

despite everything, she understands her leader. there will be time for water later. not much later, but later.