Ah, the great, arid expanses of the Mojave wasteland. Lose yourself once in it, and there's an overwhelming possibility of leaving your bones behind to be bleached in the sun for all eternity. It had claimed the lives of thousands throughout history. Of the unfortunate caravans heading to their Promised Land in Utah. Of the faithful who tried to find Zion once more in New Canaan. Of men and women, sons and daughters, merchants and traders, travelers and soldiers, pilgrim and sinner alike. The desert claimed its share indiscriminately. In a twisted sense, it was the perfect manifestation of all that social reformists strove to turn society into. Unerring, infallible, uncompromising, indiscriminate. Carrying out its task with the highest degree of efficiency for centuries.

However, the corruption of humanity tainted even this sacred land of purifying heat. The vehicle drove across the wasteland, its driver, intent only on leaving civilization far behind her. She would show the tyrants who had snatched away all she had held dear. She would make them repent and beg for mercy, before she looked into their eyes and pulled the trigger. They would never be able to track her in the desert. In her arrogance, she believed herself to be invulnerable. In her vanity, she found power beyond measure. In her pride, lay the key to her demise.

For one does not attain the position where the label of tyrant may be stamped onto them, by leaving loose ends untied. The shadowy agents of death had been tracking the ill-fated vehicle, and were waiting for it to arrive. The agents were creatures of the night, familiar with the nooks and crannies, the ebbs and flows of the Mojave. The desert was in them, just as they were in it. And so, once the vehicle screeched to a halt, and the woman walked out, she sealed her fate. All that would remain of her, would be the footprints in the sand. She does not hear the sharp bark of the rifle, nor the mocking clink of the bolt as it is drawn back to release the spent jacket.

She does not feel the round shatter her heart. Her pride had blinded her to the realities of the world, and she was claimed by the reaper, not feeling, not seeing, not sensing. The body would be claimed by the sand, as it caressed her flesh. The creature of the sand would strip away everything, and leave only the bones behind. The true human form, devoid of all forms of personality and identity. The desert never returns what it claims, and they are forgotten. All that remain of them, are the footprints in the sand.

The agent of death however, was satisfied with his work. He had helped eliminate a threat to the establishment. He had saved the lives of hundreds by claiming one. He had contributed to ending the chaotic cycle of creation and destruction that plagued the cities of the country. He had acted for the greater good. As he walked away, he too left his own, deeper footprints in the sand, which would take longer to erase.

And now dear readers, the question remains what you will choose to do. Will you choose to walk in a shallow manner, only to be swept away by the storms, or will you etch your legacy in the sands of time? It all depends on your choices, and in what you choose to believe in. It all depends on how you wish to leave your footprints in the sand..........