Amira Mohammed
New Member
(This is the opening of something I am working on in my spare time, it's short, not pretty good like AT ALL lmao, has a pretty weird ending, is disjointed and is very much an early draft, but it can't hurt to let someone else see it I guess. My aim with the project is sorta of a mix between the traditional Western, mixed in with a post apocalyptic story, and set in the Sahara desert.)
The harsh sun shone bright on the almost infinite, sprawling desert. 70 years after the end of the world, the brutal wasteland that is the Sahara hasn't changed.....except for the darting red motorcycle leaving sand flying in it's wake. 70 years ago nobody would have dared to attempt crossing the Sahara with nothing to their person but their will and determination, but today, it's some people's last hope to escape. Motives are many, but in the end the path is always the same, it's a trip through the largest hot desert in the world. Barely does anyone survive, but those that do, those are the legends that made it out of hell and onto the other side. Out of a sudden, the red motorcycle which has been conquering the desert comes to a screeching halt. A quick glance by its rider on the dust-covered fuel meter reveals an empty tank.
The once harsh sun is now a bright red and starting to disappear from the clear skies. The driver, his face and expression hidden by his helmet, is physically panting as he drags his vehicle through the sand, hoping to be able to find some source of fuel to continue his journey forward.
As if a divine being had heard the driver's prayers, the outline of a village gradually starts being visible, getting clearer and clearer as the driver marches forward...until the gate is visible to the driver. A small sign hangs next to the gate, although it's letters are foreign to the driver. Nonetheless, he continues onwards inside the village, which is full of mud houses and almost exudes the vibe of a ghost town. In the far back of the village, a factory stands out. Clearly active as smoke rises from it's smokestack.
The driver continues walking through the tight streets of the villages, until he comes across a slightly large mud house, it's doors open wide, and the sound of faint music coming from inside. A large sign hanged above, although it's letters were also the same foreign language that the driver had come across on the gate. However, the driver did not need to able to read the sign to recognize a bar when he sees one. He parks his motorcycle next to the mud house and takes off his helmet, finally revealing his brown skin which is glistening with sweat, his face rugged but oddly handsome, and an unkempt beard and hair only add to his rugged appearance.
He takes a step inside the mud house, it's not overtly populated with customers, but a couple of people sit quietly and alone drinking in peace. Most of them dressed in clothing native to the Sahara, indicating that the driver is the only foreigners in the area. In one of the corner's lies a jukebox from which the music emanates, although clearly on it's last legs.
The driver heads towards the main bar, and takes a seat in one of the empty stools. A shelf of beverages (mostly moonshine) hangs on the wall behind the bar. The bartender, an indigo Tagelmust covering his face, finishes cleaning up one of the glasses before attending to the driver. "ⵜⵉⴼⴰⵡⵉⵏ" the bartender says, his tone indicating a greeting. Knowing that attempting to understand or talk to the bartender will only result in failure, the driver instead points at one of the moonshine bottles, and gestures for a shot. The bartender nods in understanding and pours a shot for the driver, though the question of payment is a bit of a mystery.....
BANG! A loud gunshot is heard outside, and suddenly an armed man enter the bar. He starts yelling at the same language that the bartender used, although with a slightly different accent. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was an act of robbery.
The armed man quickly rushes to the main bar and points the gun at the bartender while continuing to yell.....click, silence falls upon the room, as the robber feels the cold iron steel of a revolver on his temple. In an expert fashion, the driver seems to have produced a gun out of nowhere and is now aiming it at the robber's forehead, and for the first time since arriving, he speaks: "I don't know if you can understand me, so I am gonna keep this short. Walk away now, and I might just be able to enjoy my drink in peace". The robber freezes for a moment, before bolting away from the bar, seemingly getting the message.
"ⵜⴰⵏⵎⵎⵉⵔⵜ!" the bartender issues what appears to be a gratitude. Before gesturing what appears to mean that the driver won't have to pay for his drinks, after which the driver pours another shot and continues drinking.
The harsh sun shone bright on the almost infinite, sprawling desert. 70 years after the end of the world, the brutal wasteland that is the Sahara hasn't changed.....except for the darting red motorcycle leaving sand flying in it's wake. 70 years ago nobody would have dared to attempt crossing the Sahara with nothing to their person but their will and determination, but today, it's some people's last hope to escape. Motives are many, but in the end the path is always the same, it's a trip through the largest hot desert in the world. Barely does anyone survive, but those that do, those are the legends that made it out of hell and onto the other side. Out of a sudden, the red motorcycle which has been conquering the desert comes to a screeching halt. A quick glance by its rider on the dust-covered fuel meter reveals an empty tank.
The once harsh sun is now a bright red and starting to disappear from the clear skies. The driver, his face and expression hidden by his helmet, is physically panting as he drags his vehicle through the sand, hoping to be able to find some source of fuel to continue his journey forward.
As if a divine being had heard the driver's prayers, the outline of a village gradually starts being visible, getting clearer and clearer as the driver marches forward...until the gate is visible to the driver. A small sign hangs next to the gate, although it's letters are foreign to the driver. Nonetheless, he continues onwards inside the village, which is full of mud houses and almost exudes the vibe of a ghost town. In the far back of the village, a factory stands out. Clearly active as smoke rises from it's smokestack.
The driver continues walking through the tight streets of the villages, until he comes across a slightly large mud house, it's doors open wide, and the sound of faint music coming from inside. A large sign hanged above, although it's letters were also the same foreign language that the driver had come across on the gate. However, the driver did not need to able to read the sign to recognize a bar when he sees one. He parks his motorcycle next to the mud house and takes off his helmet, finally revealing his brown skin which is glistening with sweat, his face rugged but oddly handsome, and an unkempt beard and hair only add to his rugged appearance.
He takes a step inside the mud house, it's not overtly populated with customers, but a couple of people sit quietly and alone drinking in peace. Most of them dressed in clothing native to the Sahara, indicating that the driver is the only foreigners in the area. In one of the corner's lies a jukebox from which the music emanates, although clearly on it's last legs.
The driver heads towards the main bar, and takes a seat in one of the empty stools. A shelf of beverages (mostly moonshine) hangs on the wall behind the bar. The bartender, an indigo Tagelmust covering his face, finishes cleaning up one of the glasses before attending to the driver. "ⵜⵉⴼⴰⵡⵉⵏ" the bartender says, his tone indicating a greeting. Knowing that attempting to understand or talk to the bartender will only result in failure, the driver instead points at one of the moonshine bottles, and gestures for a shot. The bartender nods in understanding and pours a shot for the driver, though the question of payment is a bit of a mystery.....
BANG! A loud gunshot is heard outside, and suddenly an armed man enter the bar. He starts yelling at the same language that the bartender used, although with a slightly different accent. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was an act of robbery.
The armed man quickly rushes to the main bar and points the gun at the bartender while continuing to yell.....click, silence falls upon the room, as the robber feels the cold iron steel of a revolver on his temple. In an expert fashion, the driver seems to have produced a gun out of nowhere and is now aiming it at the robber's forehead, and for the first time since arriving, he speaks: "I don't know if you can understand me, so I am gonna keep this short. Walk away now, and I might just be able to enjoy my drink in peace". The robber freezes for a moment, before bolting away from the bar, seemingly getting the message.
"ⵜⴰⵏⵎⵎⵉⵔⵜ!" the bartender issues what appears to be a gratitude. Before gesturing what appears to mean that the driver won't have to pay for his drinks, after which the driver pours another shot and continues drinking.
