Shadow of Rage

I was out in the desert at night 
on a two lane highway, walking. 
I saw sand dunes on both sides of the road. 
The sky was black, no stars. 
Black storm clouds in the distance. 
The ground was black. 

Out in the distance  
I saw a four-legged beast, hairy —
 like a polar bear, but tan. 
A man rode on its back. 
He was bare-chested, gaunt yet muscular, 
with a twisted grin 
carved into a face that looked half-rotted and half-mad.
His eyes burned with cruel intent, 
and his skin clung to his bones 
like parchment over wire. 

He rode the beast 
like a warlord from a nightmare, 
wielding a long pole sickle 
as if it were an extension of his rage — 
coming for me. 
I ran. 
I ran down the highway, 
chased by shadow of rage. 

Suddenly 
I was on a train, 
a train out in the scorched desert night. 
Outside, a storm churning in the sky, 
and the earth below was black as pitch. 
Burnt tree stumps — no branches, no leaves, 
just charred — 
even the sand was burnt. 

Suddenly  — 
I was on the highway again, 
running from the beast. 
The road became a cage — 
bars rising around me like a jail.

I kept running. 
And then I came to the end of the cage 
and realized I was trapped. 
I ran back out, hoping not to be caught 
by the man on the beast. 

I escaped. 
I continued down the dark desert highway. 
In the distance, 
mountains rose against the horizon.
I kept going. 
I saw a glimpse of light, 
a city, possibly civilization.

I kept running. 
I arrived, standing outside of what looked like safety — 
alone and uncertain, 
it looked like a place of rest, 
a place of peace, 
a place where the man on the beast 
could not reach me. 

But I could not enter the city.
I saw no one.
Was it empty? 
I felt entering was by permission.

A payphone appeared nearby — 
old, silent, waiting. 
I picked it up and dialed,
hoping someone would answer.
I waited.
Would they let me in?

By Clark Champ

US Copyright Office 02 November 2025