God the carriage is stifling, first class and the air is intermittent at best. I am in a compartment that is solely occupied by women interestingly clad in Victorian attire from head to toe.  I am myself overdressed and feel light headed from the heat, the after effect from my last meal and the churning of the locomotive. We are heading through dessert —it’s fuckin’ hot. One can only presume that we are being held captive en route to our destiny, why else would I be here in such a predicament. My travel companions appear to be on the brink of losing consciousness due to the obvious restrictive nature of their apparel. I, on the other hand am seeking the nearest exit. As I glance out a window I see them/him against the bluest sky—turbaned outlaws, tribesmen. There are perhaps fifty in all, each seated upon his very own thoroughbred horse. Their dress is traditional, colourful. Each man’s chest is draped with a set of bandoliers. I am mesmerised. These men are strong, they are determined and, at the helm is my man intent on coming to reclaim me: his woman. I immediately shift positions placing myself in full view. With my location revealed the band charge full strength on horseback as one toward the train. As they make their way across the dunes I ready my self to disembark. I straighten out my riding boots, jeans and cheesecloth blouse. I wrap my head appropriately and attempt to leave the carriage. My companions immediately confused, betray an air of anger and resentment. Uncertain of precisely what is happening they implore that I use better judgement and stay.  I ignore their pleas but invite them instead to unshackle them selves and join me in my flight. In spite a handful of them block the only exit door and warn me against such foolishness. Desperate, I climb out of the nearest window and onto the roof whilst the others scream after me in hysteria. I should now extended a hand and insist that they join in the escape I know but their attire really is unacceptable, besides they have not the courage and well they know it. In unison the men saddle up alongside the carriage, and with one swift motion I leap from the moving train with eyes closed onto “his” horse.  Perspiration, amber, lavender, black rose with a hint of lingering tobacco beckon a firm grip tight around his waist. We ride away from the locomotive triumphant—the men as comrades, and I liberated. Before the awaiting horizon we two alone veer off from our brothers with one unspoken deliberate move, and we ride—we ride at full charge until we are no longer.

Photo:Tumbler.com    .