This is an entry I put in for a travel competition. Limited to a certain amount of characters, it did not suit my natural tendency for explication of tiny salient details.
The waking sun shimmered on the horizon and coloured the endless plains of sand pinkish yellow. I yawned sleepily, vaguely aware of the smell of bread crisping on that battered metal mesh over an open fire. No dressing was necessary: climbing out of the sleeping bag and putting my riding boots back on was all there was. I didn't think I could get used to it so easily, but the rustic outdoor desert dwelling habits sank in as easily as getting back into the saddle.
The day began with a simple breakfast of toasted bread dipped in hummus and little glasses of sweet tea out of a hulking kettle licked black by flames. Sitting on rocks or crossed legged in the sand, bread in hand and tea close by, the chatter that ended late at sunset started to rouse with the rising sun: its brightening rays transforming the colours of the desert, lighting in pink, orange, yellow and gold, our path through the valleys and dunes.
It wouldn't matter if I were Gabriel García Márquez writing an exquisite two paragraphs (forgive the seeming comparison, it is not. He is the latest novelist I have fallen into enchantment with); the test is actually of social media savviness, requiring your voting public, that is, how many friends you have on Facebook or names in your email address book, or indeed Twits following you. It's not the first social media competition disguised as a writing competition. It's just a little disheartening for the writer who puts in the effort when upon reflection, the person who spells holidays with a 'z' is as liking to win a "writing competition" as G.G. Márquez.
Pfff. First world problems, eh!
