(no subject)

The steady throb of the night was almost overcome by the sound of a dozen motorcycles, growling ferally in and out of the panels of darkness. They flickered, sliding in and out of time at high speed, the motes of illumination cast off of them glittering like strands of Christmas lights. They were thrillseekers, Dashael though, or they were looking for something between this world and the other. For the latter option, her heart held pity. To be pulling a maneuver like that – sober – those men meant business. Her lips pursed against the cool air as she listened to the unearthly moan of the engines die on the stretch of distant road that bore them away from her.

The most that she could feel was the dryness of the street permeating her whole being. Dashael had been walking so long that she could no longer remember the tickle of lust in her throat. For several years, the dust on the wind had sanded away any trace of her identity.