It only took five minutes before Liz realized something was off about the canyon. She'd successfully crept in without attracting attention from the gate guard, probably Clay Hatahle, a Navajo member who hung out with some of the band kids to make himself feel stronger. He just looked like an idiot, yet nobody seemed to have let him know yet. Clay was going into his senior year at the same high school as Liz, and he'd been on the football team longer than anyone could remember. He also had a side job guarding the gates for the Antelope Canyon tourist parking lot on weeknights, and he took it pretty seriously. Enough so that Liz had to be extra careful sneaking past him that morning, or he definitely would have either beaten her up or called the cops.
The canyon was darker than she expected, because the moon didn't shine through the clouds that night, and it was freezing like the Titanic sinking. She pulled her cardigan (Aspen made it for her, when they first started dating, and had cracked jokes about the sweater curse as Liz checked the fit) closer to her torso and stepped warily forward into the crevice.
"Hello?" Her voice wavered, just a little, and she grasped the rock next to her to carefully make her way down a damp incline. "Is anyone here?" Nobody answered, of course, and she wanted to smack herself but couldn't seem to take her hand off the wall.
As she finally reached the bottom of the ramp-like structure, a waft of perfume entered Liz's nose gently. It smelled almost like Aspen's, but with a tang of something sour. Citrus, or rotten fruit, maybe? Liz sped up just a little and turned a corner, hoping to find a shirt or even Aspen, but instead her eyes landed on a small scrap of paper poking out from a minuscule crack in the otherwise smooth sandstone.
Shaky hands pulled the piece gently so as to not tear it accidentally, and she opened it up with low expectations. Many tourists left small notes for future visitors to find, almost like temporary graffiti. They were typically just little journals about the tourist (name, number, age), but origami was also popular amongst 20-year-olds with nothing better to do.
Try looking deeper within yourself to find what you truly seek. Signed, Thief.
Philosophical quotes were new. The paper wasn't very old, and the ink looked almost fresh, like it'd been written minutes earlier. A small smudge marred the otherwise pristine background. When Liz looked closer, it almost looked like the canyon from above, like you'd see on Google Maps.
It almost felt like a hint. Was she missing something? Who in the world was Thief?
YOU ARE READING
desert gorge
Misteri / Thrillerat the age of sixteen, the world feels so small-but elizara sanchez is about to learn how much smaller it can get. in the rural town of desert gorge, arizona, you don't just leave; you get the hell out before it's too late. when liz's queerplatonic...
