Ripen And Split

We both said we meant it, your hands in my hair. In the end it didn’t matter, you looked out across the desert like you were already crossing it, a dehydrated camel hell bent on pushing yourself towards purple sunsets no matter how rough or dangerous the terrain. I sat in the barely shade near a towering saguaro and braided spines and blossoms intermittently, blood flowering on the waxy white petals. I watched you go until the heat rising from the sand turned you into a wavy haze. I sighed when both hands dropped the struggle to hold you near.From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick

Sarah is a writer, editor, and a writing professor at the University of Missouri-St. Louis. Her work has previously appeared in The Local Voice, The Mid-Rivers Review, and Salt Journal.

The Election

Charlton Heston chewed through debates like a drunk cow gnaws at grass.

"Not only did I play Moses, but I could win this election with a camel as a running mate."

Afterwards, he was asked to clarify. "No, I'm not speaking metaphorically. An honest to God live camel. I've got one on the ranch, and if it isn't more fit to govern than my opponent, then this cow's had too much vodka."

Only after the election did the voting populace realize Charlton Heston had died in 2008. And that's the story of how a camel became President of the United States.

The Bridge To Nowhere

The bridge attracted all sorts of people. Haggard old men and women, driving mobile homes. Young families, on a weekend sojourn. Teenage lovers, joined at the hands. Once, many years ago, a man came riding a camel.

"What's at the other end?" They always asked the same question.

"Nothing, as far as I know." He had never actually been down the bridge himself. It was just his job to collect the tolls.

He always wondered what possessed people to drive the bridge. Was it curiosity? A sense of adventure? Boredom? Desperation?

Whatever the attraction, no one had ever come back.