Author's note: Or, A Story in the Style of a Qasida. A qasida is an Arabic poem that follows both a particular meter and a particular story format that is based around a journey through the desert. This is a bit of an experiment, and the two parts are written in entirely different styles.

Part I

He comes upon the settlement when the light is fading into a long red line on the horizon. He can sleep in the open, he doesn't mind, he's used to it, but they have some petrol in an old broken-down truck and he needs it. They laugh at his money, laugh at the stranger on a motorcycle too stupid to buy a camel in this dry, dusty place, and tell him to give them a story instead. He knows their language (knows many languages, but never really thought he'd have to use this one), and they are pleasantly surprised when he replies clearly enough. A story about what?

Love, they tell him. No one cannot be touched by a love story.

So he tells them with the words he knows of blue eyes, of soft brown hair, of broken promises he never had a chance to make. When he has finished speaking, they give him a little water and food and he takes it with his thanks.

Will you ever see her again? they ask, a cruel question they already know the answer to.

No, he says, and looks at the dirt beneath his feet.

You have come a long way, one of the elders says with smile.

Tired, he says, and the drawn look in his eyes is from more than endless sun and desert. I am tired. He rests a hand on his motorcycle. He knows why they laugh at him, that it needs something rarer here even than water, but it has carried him far and his trust in it is absolute. He has had it longer than the clothes on his back and can feel its roar in under his skin. He thanks them for their hospitality, praises their elders and the strength of their tents, the quality of their horses and camels. It is a politeness and they know what he wants.

Petrol, he says in his own language, because he does not know it in theirs. He gestures to what he means. He will not beg, but he has given them their price.

They give the fuel to him, to the sad man with the blue-grey eyes, but tell him to wait until morning to leave. It is a demand, not a request. He is impatient, but he does not argue. He cannot run from his regrets, no matter how fast or far he goes.

Foolish, foolish man.

Maybe I am.

The thunderstorm breaks and the people rush into their tents. It is the sort of rain that drowns villages and destroys flowers, breaking their stems before they have a chance to fully open. The soil has not felt rain in months. The water is already pooling on the hard-packed dirt and dust floats on it like a film. The ran drenches him and pours down his face, but he doesn't go inside. He breathes through his mouth. The wet dust feels like it's choking him. He unties a blanket from his pack and throws it over the motorcycle, for it is the only kind of protection he can give it.

These people care even less than he does where he is going. He know what it would look like: a metal carcass, newly cleaned with rain and shining in the sun. It will outlast his bones. If he sells it for a camel or runs out of fuel, the end will be the same. No, he will keep going.

You run from the wrong thing.

Maybe I do. Maybe I do.