The desert breathes. The wind is the breath of the desert, and the curve of every dune is the back of the wild living thing that the people of the desert – Sonia’s people – claim it to be. The wind buffets Joshua Tree Hold continuously, seeking out chinks in its heavy walls, kicking grit into people’s faces, whipping the sleeves of Sonia’s tunic. Sometimes the wind rises and sometimes it falls, but today the wind was rising.
Sonia ignored the bustle of the people below her rushing to bring their belongings inside in front of the incoming sandstorm. Her mind was occupied elsewhere. Climbing the steps of the hold’s outer wall was no easy task even under good conditions, and she was trying to do it one-handed: her other hand was clapped to the top of her head, holding her bonnet in place.
The steps breathe. Their rickety creaks are the breath of the steps and every inch higher is that much closer to the head of the living thing Sonia's people claim it to be.
Sonia lost her balance and toppled down, face first into the living, breathing grass. The curve of every insect is the feet of the thing that the people of the desert claim it to be.
Joshua looked down from above. "Sonia, you doofus. That's what you get for climbing one-handed. I told you it's boys only in my tree house." Sonia ran crying into the house.
Her mom breathes. Sonia's whines and cries for the tenth time today are the straw that breaks the camel's back, and Joshua's Tree Hold is no more.
Opening: The Green Cat.....Continuation: whoever