West Desert Journal by Nathan Cowlishaw

The voice of the dust storm roars, as the sand pin-stripes the vehicles that glide through the desert. Down the blue highway, they move in a line, like UFOs. It is dusk, and the sun has gone to bed. All is quiet with the sand plummeting into my vehicle, running over the highway. I leave the radio tuned into static, but a Mexican radio station fades in and out. The radio follows the RPM of the engine. It sounds mysterious. The time is drawing near, and something waits…

Written by Nathan Cowlishaw