New Stories from the Gobi Desert
Dulwich College Beijing, Jeffery Liu, Fiction: Group 3
T
he final rays of the dying sun bled over the horizon, casting a florid glow over the
desert. The sand dunes shifted sluggishly, shoveled by some invisible entity revealing a
man whose footsteps trailed for miles on end behind him. His haggard appearance made
him look misplaced in desert. His silhouette against the red canvas of the sky disclosed
that he was wearing nothing but a gaunt pair of shorts, three sizes too big, fastened together by
what was left of a cheap, leather belt. His face was emancipated, revealing the sharp cheekbones
and stretching his skin so tightly across his face that if it weren’t for his eyes, one would mistake
him for a corpse. He moved forward sluggishly, no dragging one foot behind the other, creating
one long, unbroken scar in the desert sands.
This hostile environment was no stranger to our wary traveller; after all, he has been on the
run for the last year, spanning over seventeen countries and all five continents.
“I love you Sam.” His wife had said to him, moments before he brutally murdered her.
“Remember that no matter where you are, I’ll always be there.”
His strength had finally failed him as Sam collapsed onto the sand, allowing it to consume
him. He felt lukewarm. The soothing sands felt the beach in California that he spent his last,
guiltless days with. He lay there, slowly accepting the fact that he was going to die here. He can
feel the myriad grains of sand sinking into the lacerations that were strewn across his body.
Like the claws of the devil. Jim thought, when without warning, his ears were filled with the
symphony of music and the cheery chitchat of partygoers. He looked up and saw in the distance, a
rectangular table with several figures, apparently in dialogue.
Sam staggered to his feet. He had his strength back. He took a step forward, where was the
pain? He looked down dreading seeing all the wounds he had accumulated in the last year and yet
all he saw was impeccable, tender, new skin where his wounds once were. He sprinted towards the
party. His agility had returned to him too. He ran closer and closer…
“Ah yes, Sam!” A voice from the center of the table hollered. “We’ve been expecting your
grace at our humble dinner.” A man wearing a black tuxedo stood up. He wore a neat bowler hat
underneath where an oily mass of hair is barely visible. He smiled; scrunching up the equally
oily mustache that sat under his nose along with every wrinkle he ever had, making him look
remarkably like a rat.
“H-how do you know my name?” Sam stuttered.
“Well see here, my good man.” The man in the tuxedo replied. “My friends and I have
knowledge of many things.”
“Do not mind Pride.” A Mongolian warrior sitting at the fifth seat added. His accent was thick
and dragged his ‘i’ s too long. His appearance, like his speech, broken and haggard; with studded
leather armor over a green silk undershirt and a scabbard hanging from his left. His helmet was
nowhere to be seen, presumably lost in an anarchic battle.
“Do control yourself Envy.” Pride responded, adjusting his monocle. “We mustn’t leave our
guest a bad impression of us now, am I right?”
“That’s a lot of green for a man.” Sam interjected.
“It represents something I never had,” Envy scoffed and with that, returned to his, own, little
“
