we woke at dawn. no clothes, no beds. no streets. no house, no telephones. just the three of us screaming at the molten sky above where a burnt orange canopy had settled and through which pierced only sparse bellicose rays which dotted the sloppy, scarlet landscape below. the unspeakable heat parched our throats and bore through our tender eyelids. we cursed the heavens, damning whatever cruel creator stole us from our precious earth and led us to this snakebit place until there was naught to do but lift ourselves from the spongy ground and carry on.
the three of us: carlos de los gatos, nicorette lewis, and i, vigo van der lapp, rose to our feet and scooped the warm, red soil beneath us to cover such body parts as made us comfortable, for we were hardly friends. we had met the night before at that strange party at dave's house. something there had gone so horribly wrong, but what...?
i fashioned a toga from the soil and carlos adorned some crude, chunky briefs. nicorette crafted a makeshift bikini. the madness of this place and the heat so tortured our being that each of us cried out in pain as we trudged frantically towards what destination we knew not.
it was hot, so hot. jets of steam burst suddenly through unseen bedrock holes at random intervals, searing our already sun-charred flesh, clearly not intended for climates so treacherous. the yellow-orange ozone above us, while blocking out direct rays, seemed only to magnify the sun's heat. great, foreign crags of such radiant colors - emerald greens, deep browns, bright reds and dark mahoganies - towered above us like violent, twisted everests, jutting through the caustic atmosphere above.
only this: it smelled delicious.
[to be continued!]
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