Welcome to Gaia! ::

A few preliminary notes on this:

1. This work has only been revised twice and is therefore still in a sort of rough draft form.

2. I do not intend to have a discussion on the various political (and moral) issues dealt with in the story. I'm more interested in grammatical idiosyncrasies, thoughts on how it flows from beginning to end (i.e. is it disjointed?) that kind of thing.

3. In case anyone doesn't pick up on this, lines of asterisks indicate shifts in time.

A few preliminary notes on this:

1. This work has only been revised twice and is therefore still in a sort of rough draft form.

2. My writing primarily focuses on non-fiction (essays, letters, debate) so please do not expect a masterpiece of the short story form when you read this.

3. I am not advocating for any specific political or ideological viewpoint within this story (in regards to drugs, gun control, monkey wrenching or anything else) other than greater appreciation and/or protection of the southwestern deserts of the US. I'm not attempting to inflict any particular set of morals onto the story beyond that base, either.

4. I am aware that the character development is a bit shabby, and this is intentional. It was done for the sake of economy, as the characters are not the primary purpose of this story. If the character development seems uneven in the sense that it greatly favors one character over another, however, let me know.

5. In case anyone doesn't pick up on this, lines of asterisks indicate shifts in time.

Dancing Across The Desert

The heat came down upon them in shifting waves and currents, altered by the ebb and flow of the wind. The sun burned brightly overhead in the cloudless sky. The heat was problematic, and seemed to have resulted in endless complaining, which began shortly after they parked the car in Saguaro National Park, east of Tucson, Arizona. As soon as they grabbed their backpacks and headed for the backcountry in the hot, windy afternoon she had started complaining. It remained continuous for several hours. At first it had angered him, but over time it began to have an almost hypnotic effect. Hypnosis aside, his anger cooled because he realized that he could not fault his companion. Going on this trip with him was a gift of friendship. This was not her kind of country, after all, though he couldn’t understand why.

His name was John; she went by Stephanie. Stephanie was moderately short, about 5’2”, and had a pale complexion which revealed that she had not spent much time outdoors, at least during her time in Tucson. Her build was slender but not lacking in curves and she displayed the sort of lean muscle that was indicative of spending a significant amount of time working out. She was currently wearing a T-shirt and shorts to help combat the heat, along with hiking boots, despite John’s advice against the former two articles of clothing. (They offered little protection from the sun.) She was also loaded down with a medium sized camping backpack containing water, food, and bedroll. Blonde hair hung down to her shoulders, and she had a pretty, rounded face with large green eyes and fine features. She was no great beauty, but she was attractive.

John was a somewhat stoutly built, tall man, roughly 6’0”, with broad shoulders, but lacking in upper body strength. He was in good shape, but no body-builder. He did, however, possess the strong legs and thighs of a habitual hiker. He was currently wearing a long-sleeved button-down shirt, cargo pants, and hiking boots, favoring the former two over more comfortable clothing to help ward off sunburn. He also wore a monkey wrench necklace that was covered by his shirt. He was burdened with a large camping backpack containing water, two whiskey bottles, a bedroll, and two rolled-up tents. His complexion was the mixture of a ruddy face and deeply tanned body that one often sees on a formerly pale-skinned individual who has spent too much time in the sun. His face would most commonly be described as ‘an honest face’ – he had no offensive facial features, but also lacked anything striking or handsome. His only distinguishing feature was the thick, wavy, mahogany colored mane of hair that flowed from his crown to his waistline. Well…that and his gun. He carried an XD .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol located in an inside-the-waistband holster on his right hip, which went everywhere with him. Everywhere that it was legal to carry a gun, rather. Concealed carry licenses do have their limits. Although he knew how to use the gun and would if necessary, its purpose was partly symbolic. He felt that the world was bereft of gun-toting environmentalists since the death of Edward Abbey, and that it needed more. After all, balance is a good thing, right? Why should right-wing nuts, criminals, and the government be the only ones with guns? But he had not always been an environmentalist…



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He arrived in Tucson fresh from a lush, tree-filled state with the intention of attending college and found that he couldn’t bring himself to leave after he completed his degree. The fragile beauty of this land had reached deep into his psyche in a way that the scenery in his home state never could; it had converted him into an environmentalist. As a result of this he gave up the cushy office job his degree would have afforded him and eked out a living between a part-time job as a farmhand and a full-time job as a desert guide (or guru, as the circumstances called for) when the tourist season was upon the area. He also performed occasional night work when he saw development encroaching upon the desert, but that is not a job that one is paid for. He felt the ‘desert guru’ side of his job was bullshit, but also believed that he was doing a service by keeping those ‘spiritual seekers’ who came to the desert to find inner peace and solitude and to meditate and whatnot, from getting themselves killed out there. Not to mention, people were willing to pay much more for a guru than a mere guide, so it helped line his bank account so he could get through the lean season – when the only people requiring a guide were university students looking for a place to party in isolation, away from cops and R.A.s – without having to seek out ‘real’ work in an office or behind a counter.

She came to Tucson from a different lush, tree-filled state with the intention of attending college and found that she wanted to leave as soon as possible. During her first year at university, his last, they met and quickly became good friends. Too good, in John’s opinion. He was not in love with the girl, but he did harbor thoughts that were arguably unbecoming of such good friends. He had never made any untoward advances or statements to her, never asked her out or made any lascivious comments, but he certainly would not have been reluctant if she made an offer or gave him a sign of interest. After all, she was a high-caliber intellectual, the most brilliant mind he had come across (in the form of a peer), and she was pretty. They constantly engaged in debates on issues ranging from philosophical views, to music and literature, to politics, and everything in between. They agreed on most issues, but could work themselves into a frenzy over things they disagreed upon – in particular if the debate was alcohol-fueled – but their friendship would always weather the storm. There, was, however one issue on which they violently disagreed, despite his efforts to make her understand.



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They were presently standing directly in the middle of this issue: The desert. Stephanie had been complaining since the beginning of the trip about the heat, despite John’s attempt at mitigating this problem by going in the fall when the heat was a more reasonable 100 F, rather than the blistering 115-120 F one could expect in the summer, and by starting the trip toward their potential camp site in late afternoon with hopes of acclimating her to the heat before the day-long hike that would follow the next day. He understood the nature of her complaint but felt that a hot climate, in itself, did not ruin a place. He could easily tolerate the heat in a land as beautiful as this. Granted, the Sonoran Desert was not as strikingly beautiful as the Painted Desert, which housed the Grand Canyon and the red rock desert of southern Utah, among several other natural wonders. The landscape here was subtler, but it could coalesce into a land of immense beauty once given a chance to impress itself upon one’s psyche. He felt that Stephanie hadn’t given it a proper chance, and since she had completed her degree and was planning on leaving the following year when the new hiring season started this was his last chance to try to make her understand the beauty of this land, and perhaps in the process, for her to achieve a greater understanding of himself.

As they made their way northeast toward their destination, toward the mountains, the complaining slipped to the back of John’s mind as he found himself lost in contemplation. He reflected on the time spent stubbornly trying to get her to love this country the way he did, trying to make her understand what she could not. She insisted that it was too hot, too barren, too devoid of life, barring things she hated like scorpions, rattlesnakes, and spiky plants. He advocated that this country was all the more beautiful precisely because of the frailty of the ecosystem necessitated by the climate. He loved the sense of space that could be found in the desert, how it was seemingly empty unless you were willing to invest your time in discovering its treasures. It wasn’t like the territory back east where you were clobbered with trees and undergrowth and countless bugs, a place where you’re closed in by superfluous organisms no matter where you tread, a landscape suited to claustrophobia.

This country was the polar opposite; you could see for miles, and everything your eyes lit upon consisted of an essential piece of the puzzle, nothing superfluous, nothing wasted, but many things that were beautiful, despite the harsh conditions of the environment which do not seem to leave room for beauty. You could see the kaleidoscopic range of cacti, each unique; the occasional mid-sized trees; the yucca plants; the wild flowers and grasses; the mountains; all of this stood before you, waiting to be discovered. The animal life was also intriguing to the trained eye, scores of different kinds of reptiles, mammals, even bugs and arachnids that could hold one’s interest, each of these creatures an evolutionary masterpiece that somehow managed to survive in the hostile environment. And one could not forget the beautiful songs of the coyotes, either; when taken in full this land was anything but empty. The only organisms that caused John problems out here were certain types of people that visited these lands, the scorpions, the spiky plants (when he was careless), and the rattlesnakes; and the latter would generally leave you alone if you left them alone. John, convinced that the problem was that he wasn’t articulate enough to make her understand the wonders of the desert, had given Stephanie a copy of Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire. Hell, he lent her a copy of every book the man ever wrote. She dutifully read them, and though she commented upon the author’s brilliant writing and there was a wonderfully mischievous glint in her eyes every time they passed an out-lying construction site after she had read The Monkey Wrench Gang, she still had not been converted.

For reasons unknown to John, Stephanie’s complaints about the heat had become stronger and more frequent as they ventured further into the wilderness. Although the heat bothered her it was not the main reason for her complaints, which were, in reality, primarily a channel for unrelated frustration. In truth, her frustration was based on fear of the conflict that was going to occur once they set up camp and began to indulge in their respective pleasures. His drug of choice was liquor, and she was more explorative. Despite what the length of his hair may have indicated, this bothered him. Although he admitted that his bias against illegal drugs was irrational he refused to back down when she asked about taking some along on the trip. “This isn’t going to be ******** Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” he had informed her, “If you really must indulge in something, you can have some of my whiskey.” This irritated her because she felt it was not his place to make that choice because they were, after all, only friends; however, she decided not to argue about it at the time. Unfortunately, she realized that not defending herself prior to the trip might result in a nasty confrontation once they reached their destination. Ironically, he brought along two bottles of whiskey in his backpack, a bottle of Jameson and a bottle of Rittenhouse 100 proof rye, as a result of this discussion. He doubted both bottles would be drank up by the end of the trip, as there was no excuse to go through an entire bottle of whiskey on a weeklong camping trip out in the desert due to the added drain on the water supply that heavy drinking resulted in, but she may have been unwilling to share a bottle, so he decided to play it safe. On the other hand, if her behavior remained unchanged throughout the next day, this may turn from a weeklong into a weekend trip making that detail irrelevant. John came back to his senses, discarding his thoughts, and noticed that they were nearing an area appropriate for setting up camp.



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As they finished setting up camp and ate a meal consisting of canned gourmet the beginning of sunset was upon them, along with a minor drop in temperature, though the coldness of the desert night had not set in yet. Immediately upon finishing the meal they cleaned up the campsite and Stephanie went over to her backpack, placed inside of her tent, opened it up and pulled out a zip-lock bag containing an off-white powder that had a similar appearance to flour. John sat in the middle of the campsite with a gallon of water next to him. She walked over to him and sat down, holding the bag. John looked over at her and immediately noticed the bag: “Please tell me that’s not ******** cocaine?” he pleaded. “******** you,” she replied, irritated, “Mescaline.” She pulled a metal matchbox out of the rear pocket of her pants that was filled with empty capsules. He shook his head, stood up, and walked over to the backpack, resting on the ground near his tent, unzipped it, pulled out the bottle of rye, and re-zipped his backpack. He returned to her side and sat down. Meanwhile, Stephanie was dipping halves of clear capsules into the bag, filling them with the powder, and then capping them and placing them into a separate bag. John noticed this and couldn’t help himself, “Why are you putting the stuff into pill form right now? Why not at home? It seems messy.” “It helps keep it fresh,” she replied. He was planning on saving the rye whiskey for later, but god damn it, he was irritated and thus placed high value on the added efficiency of the stronger whiskey. Stephanie smiled sweetly at him, popped a couple of the pills into her mouth, took a swig out of her gallon of water that was sitting beside her, swallowed, then quipped “Mescaline, made from Peyote. What could be more appropriate out here in the desert?” She was hoping to bring the tension to a head, get the argument out of the way and over with. But he didn’t feel like fighting about the subject that evening. Instead, he unscrewed the cap from the whiskey bottle, threw back his head, and took a long, hard pull on the bottle, ignoring the look of concern she displayed.



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An hour and a half later the sunset was nearly complete and they faced east, looking toward the mountains which were lit up by the fading sun, toward the ‘forest’ of Saguaro cacti casting tall, man-like shadows behind them, and to the sky, which was a beautiful mixture of chromatic shades of red, orange, and purple, all cast in bright, vibrant hues. Nowhere else would one find such a beautiful sunset. John took another swig out of the bottle, and Stephanie sat in silence, waiting for the Mescaline to take effect. It was at this time that the alcohol and Mescaline, respectively, began to kick in. Stephanie suddenly became talkative, almost flirtatious, and uncannily energetic. John, while less energetic, had entered a state of drunken euphoria and his somber mood had ended, replaced by a jubilant, playful one.
“s**t, John, why didn’t you let us bring a stereo out here?”
“Too much stuff in the packs already, and the way you were bitching about the heat…”
“Shut up! And come on, you can sing for me, at least!”
“A Capella?”
“Come on, sweetie, you’re drunk enough to sing!”
“If you insist…”

And so, John broke into song in an exaggerated, gruff, whiskey-soaked baritone, which belied his age of twenty-six, making him seem much older. “I’M AN OOOLD BLUES MAN, AND I THINK THAT YOU…UNDERSTAND…I BEEN SINGIN’ THE BLUUUES…EVER SINCE THE WORLD BEGA…” She cut him off. “Why the hell is it always Maggie McGill?”
“Why not?”
“For that matter, why is it always The Doors?”
“Refer to my previous question.”
“Don’t be a smart a**.”
“Would you prefer Been Down So Long?”
“No, that song is ******** depressing!”
“That’s why I like it.”
“What did I just tell you?”

A change was coming; Stephanie stood up suddenly, basking in the beauty of the desert at twilight. She enjoyed this element of the desert, if nothing else. Unfortunately, John misinterpreted her action, believing he had angered her and called out “Hey, Steph; wait a minute…” “What?” She replied, “Oh, it’s not you, don’t worry. It’s just…someone may have cut this Mescaline with Speed, I guess.” He stared at her silently, face dark with concern. “Oh, no,” she clarified, upon seeing his reaction, “It won’t hurt me. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting to have this much…energy.” John nodded, listening, while taking another swig from the bottle and subsequently screwing the cap back on. He had drunk a full third of the bottle at this point and was quite intoxicated and quite happy; he decided he had enough for tonight. She continued, “I’ve got to find some way to get rid of this energy!” Upon hearing this, his face lit up, his eyebrows arched upward, and a mischievous grin spread across his face. She understood the train of thought taking place and responded by reaching down to grab a clump of dirt and throw it at him while crying “Not that way, you sick b*****d!” She missed, fortunately, because he was far too drunk to dodge it. She started to stomp off into the twilight, toward the mountains, in a display of faux-anger, while choking back laughter. John got to his feet with some effort and followed her as best as he could, staggering along the way and trying not to fall onto or trip over a small cactus (or other spiky plant), calling out, “DAMN IT, STEPHANIE, WAIT!” She called back over her shoulder with greatly exaggerated disgust “What is it JOHN?” At this point, he caught up with her and she could no longer contain her laughter. In his drunken state it took some time to process what was happening, but he realized that he was forgiven for his transgression and was happy again. She turned toward him and smiled. At this point the Mescaline kicked in at maximum intensity.

She turned suddenly, looked up at the sky, and then took off into the desert, heading toward the mountains. She began dancing and he was shocked at her grace, never having seen her dance before. In the twilight she easily skipped over small cacti and other debris in her path and managed to weave in and out between the ubiquitous saguaros and the yuccas quite successfully. He staggered after her, not comprehending the situation in his state of mind, afraid that she was going to get hurt. He was silent, bereft of words; the only sounds were the wind blowing, the rustling of the brush, and her movements when she hit the ground. His fear disappeared as she twirled in place and turned to face him afterward, euphoric smile upon her face. He realized instinctively that she would be fine. He watched the dance, entranced by her grace, amazed at her skill that seemed to have been channeled straight from the land itself into her silhouetted, shifting form, but he was most entranced by the primal longing swelling up from deep within that resulted from watching her dance. The ubiquitous saguaros swaying gently in the wind, almost imperceptibly, complimented her movements and figure perfectly. A moment of clarity came to him and he laughed, contrasting his clumsiness with her grace and wondering if perhaps she had the right idea with her psychedelic experimentation before shrugging off the notion. Still, he longed to be part of the Dionysian Rite she was experiencing, but knew it could not be.

She had been observing the sky and noted that the stars and moon had appeared, that night was upon them, when suddenly the stars began to sway back and forth, and colors appeared before her eyes painted across the black night sky: Shades of green, blue, purple, yellow, red, and all shades in between appeared at once as if some cosmic painter (obviously a modernist) had cast his brush across the canvas of the sky, resulting in multi-colored stars, in green and purple images far off in the distance where the black of space should rightfully be, in beauty beyond belief. There was also the energy that was coursing through her. She had seemingly boundless energy to release into the universe by channeling it through her body. She turned toward the earth, an epiphany upon her. She saw saguaros swaying back and forth, in tune with her body, or perhaps in tune with her drunken friend, given their lethargic speed and asymmetrical movement, and the earth was painted with all the colors of the sky. The mountains themselves appeared to quake with explosions of color, and she had to remind herself that she was not standing in front of an active volcano. Then the noise started; the rattling. The sound reverberated through her body, made her feel whole where before she was incomplete, helped her lose her sense of self, and made the panorama before her and within her shake with ecstasy, as she stood in place throwing her arms up above her head and letting out a cry of joy. The whole scene felt like some kind of Native American ritual, or rather, the kind of ‘Native American Ritual’ you would see taking place on an old Western. If not in an altered state she would have known something was wrong, but in her current frame of mind she did not, and thus, did not recognize the danger that had befallen her.

John did recognize the danger. He temporarily put off his drunken sluggishness, in the name of necessity, and ran toward her, through and over cacti, rocks, whatever got in the way, thanking a God he didn’t believe in that he was drunk enough to dull the pain of the scrapes and cuts along his legs and the spines embedded in his feet. On the way there he thought about his terrible luck, wondering how in the ******** they found the one rattlesnake that had not gone in for the night while simultaneously pulling his pistol from its holster with his right-hand. Upon reaching her he grabbed her by the shoulder with his left hand and quickly dragged her backward while simultaneously taking aim with the pistol in his right hand. The rattler, surprised by the sudden movement, struck. It missed. John continued pulling Stephanie backward, but he inevitably tripped and they fell backward, on top of each other. He quickly pushed her aside and propped himself up on his left arm, breathing heavily, looking into the darkness, gun still in hand, ready to fire if there were signs of movement coming in their direction. Fortunately, he saw the rattlesnake slithering off into the darkness rather than attempting a second strike.

John clumsily holstered the gun, still breathing hard, and then gently nudged Stephanie, laying beside him, and asked if she was all right. She was, and though her hallucinations hadn’t ended she was self-aware enough to understand the magnitude of what just happened. They lay side by side on the ground for a few minutes catching their breath and realized their great fortune in not falling on a cactus or rock. As soon as John caught his breath he tilted back his head, looked up at the sky and let out a long, raucous laugh. He burst into song, again: “I’M AN OOOOLD BLUES MA…AH, GOD DAMN IT, WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!” She had interrupted him with a sharp jab in the ribs. “You had it coming,” she replied, calmly, staring up at the beautiful, multi-colored, shifting sky. She got to her feet and helped him up, and as soon as he looked at her he knew the ritual, despite being interrupted, was not yet over.

Stephanie immediately danced off into the darkness again, heading toward the mountains, while John stood in place hoping against hope that the rattler was gone. He didn’t shoot it the first time, but he wasn’t going to take a second chance tonight. And the idea of shooting it would only be relevant if he arrived in time, and could hit it. He was still drunk, after all. It probably didn’t matter, anyway, he had a sense that the ritual was almost over; she had to run out of energy some time, and they would return to camp and the safety of their tents afterward. He saw her running about with no apparent pattern, as if searching all over for something; she suddenly stopped. Stephanie had found the ideal spot to complete her dance. She was standing on a piece of land between the two mountains with a saguaro on either side, and the crescent moon shone down in the gap between them, placing a sliver of light upon her, and on the saguaro on either side that framed her. A pack of coyotes started howling in the distance as John walked up to observe, careful to keep his distance and not to interrupt her dance. Stephanie spun in place, stopped, and contorted her body into various odd positions, known only to a dancer. As her dance continued she alternated between spinning and the contortions, moving at an almost inhuman speed. The sliver of moonlight cast down upon her intertwined with the darkness on either side resulting from the overhanging arms of the saguaros. The coyotes’ howls turned from the low, mournful song they usually consisted of to an angry, cacophonic choir of demonic voices as her dancing increased in speed, complexity, intensity, building to a fever pitch. John watched her, stunned, and knew that he was in love. All at once, the coyotes’ howls decreased in frequency and in severity of tone, becoming once more a low, mournful chorale; the song of the desert.

John, sensing that it was time, rushed forward and Stephanie fell into his arms, exhausted, and kissed him. He wisely – despite his drunken state – decided to pursue the issue later and silently held her, giving her time to catch her breath and regain her footing. Stephanie released herself from his grasp when she was sure-footed again and surveyed the area around her; “I’m in love.” She whispered. “I can see that,” he replied, forcing happiness into his voice, a grim smile upon his face. In reality, John’s heart sunk when he heard those words, because he intuited their true meaning in a way that wouldn’t have been possible if he was sober. In his heart he knew those words were not meant for him, nor for any man. He realized that the kiss was just a consolation prize. On the other hand, at least she finally understood.

Bring on your torture, your bullets, your pains

Pokes the above thread bubble and nods, having not read it all, I'll take her word for it. But from what I skimmed through, here is a few points to consider.

Grammar Nazi Me:

Always enter when in dialogue. Each quote is it's own paragraph, and try to not make it so... wall of text-ish? Readers, much like myself, often feel overwhelmed when there are large paragraphs that fill the entire screen of their computers. Remember that most readers (especially the American kind [which can seem to be rare stare ]) have short attention spans. Be sure to mix long sentences with shorter ones. Just basic advice to keep the audience for as long as possible.

On the other hand:

I like your attention to the small things, although too much of this could get you in trouble. Detail is good, if it is relevant detail. Setting up for characters and plots are where you need to focus this, but you seem to be doing fine. Just fair warning.

I like your tone. It's steady and calm when it comes to narrations. The wrong tone will divert the reader from reading. Good job. Very appropriate.

If this was in book form, with smaller paragraph restrictions, I would have read all of it. Honestly, I can't ready anything of length when it comes to internet things, as it strains my eyes too much and it seems way too overwhelming. I sound like an old lady now. . . From what I read, it was pretty good.

And in my heart, things aren't the same.

it's been a while since i read the story so im not going to pretend to have a definite opinion on something that specific. giving Stephanie more voice may help fix the point of view problem (and if it were me i would try it before rewriting completely). whether it will work or not depends on how you write it. biggrin