Write a few paragraphs (or a scene) that depict a place. It can be anything from the immediate, physical surroundings to a city, or even a country. Invoke as many of the senses as you can. Make us see the sights, hear the background noises, sample the scents in the air. Contest ends 24 May, with voting taking place 25 - 31 May. Good luck to everyone!

ok, but should we post here, or send it somewhere else?

Please post it here. It makes it easier for everyone to find it. Thanks!

Finally, I had made it. The saving, the planning, all of it had lead to here, Instanbul, and eternal city. I was sitting at the edge of the Blue Mosque, across the street from the Aya Sophia Mosque, actually eating a shishkabob, drinking a (typical American) Coke.
The sun was starting to go down into the straight, highlighting the shadows cast by the dozens of ships waiting to go through. Each one was turned black, on a field of dark blue and gold, sunset not far away. I took another bite of the shishkebab, which was not bad, but not what I expected (which is half the fun of travelling). Kinda small, but the rice made up for it, almost like dirty rice back home. And only for 3,000 lira. Turkey was the first place I'd ever been to that would make a favorable argument for scientific notation on their money..;) It smelled good, tasted good, even though it was tourist food.
It was about then that I heard it. The loudest sound I will ever hear..I've been to Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, King's X..this was louder. I've heard buildings be demolished, trucks grinding their gears, rappers with bazoooka speakers in the back..this was louder. It was the muzzein's call to prayer (I'm sitting next to 2 mosques, ya figure?..;), amplified, and when you get a call like that, it's best to listen. I watched the faithful enter the mosque..in small groups. I knew in effect what he was saying, but it could have been a recording.
Getting up, leaving a tip, I made my way to the Aya Sofia mosque..formerly known as the Hagia Sophia Orthadox cathedral. The walls were slightly honey-colored as I walked in, to see where generations of Byzantines were crowned, revolutions plotted, and byzantine political manueverings got their name. Two things had brought me here, Harry Turtledoves' alternate Byzantine empire books, and, strangely enought, They Might be Giants, doing 'Istanbul not Constantinople'..being younger, and with less financial burdens, I had decided to go see what all the fuss was about (I knew I wasn't crazy a few days later when I hear someone else whistling the tune..;).
Though you would think such a large city would smell bad, this one didn't. Maybe it was because I was standing next to an ancient monument. Maybe it was because it was clean. But you looked around, and imagined all the places, and all the people who had ever walked through here.

I lay in my bed next to my dreaming husband, enjoying the stillness of the morning. Before the fingers of light creep across the sky, the birds wake and begin, one by one, to chirp their welcome of the dawn. The rooster adds his brash note to the chorus, my cue to embrace another day. I step out onto the patio grateful for the sweatshirt that curbs the moist chill of dawn. Across the dew drenched lawn I walk, breathing deep the scent of damp earth. The barn looms out of the dispursing mist and adds a pungent odor of hay, animals and manure. The cow greets me with her low voice eager for the relief of milking. I take my place on the stool by her side, resting my head on her fuzzy flank. Left, right, left, right, rhythmically the milk squirts into the bucket pinging gently off its metal sides. Next, I throw the chickens their corn and fill my basket with eggs. Laden with treasures of warm eggs and steaming milk, I return across the lawn to the house. The sun has begun to paint the eastern sky with subtle hues of pink and yellow making me pause to enjoy the view. The black and white world of night surrenders to the colors of day. My flowers add an echo to the sunrise, splashing the yard with cheerful accents. A current of air carries to me the aroma of fresh coffee bringing a smile to my face as I know my love has arisen and awaits me at the door. He holds it open for me, relieving me of the frothing bucket of milk and planting a kiss on my flushed cheek as I pass. Thus begins a summer morning on a farm nestled in the hills of New England.

A cool breeze, born of summertime's gentle warmth, eased over my skin. My face harbored a small smile as I began my daily journey, a journey that took my body and mind, still in the numbness of sleep, to work. The rays of the Texan sun bore into my back, the heat-filled sensation a ward to the chill I had experienced prior, in my room. The scents of newly-blossomed flowers sent my senses into a stasis of rapture. On the horizon, my eyes met the monstrous visage of a building, donned in large window panes. The likeness reminded me of a dragon's reflective scales, shimmering in the sunlight, consuming the light in an awe-inspiring show of magnificence. But alas, the building was not a dragon, only a place where others, like me, worked day-in and day-out during the droll of the day. Suddenly, my eyes broke away from the building, caught by a circling shadow in the sky; the silhouette of a hawk. She visited this area every day, and I always stopped to appreciated her beauty. The area, over which she circled, couldn't match the sight of her, but was a sight to behold nonetheless; the trees, rich with green leaves, stood like guardians, watching over those who would care to look upon them with a smile; the bright flowers, summer's gift, bore heady scents; and the sky, a fathomless blanket of brightest blue, hung overhead in silence. The scene and all of its beauty would soon be drowned by a chorus of typing, the sound of productivity, as I entered the armored building. But I smiled, knowing that, when I entered my office, I could still watch it through my window.. (Be gentle, I haven't written in a long time.. too long of a time.)

The bus is late. When I look down the street for it, the sun burns into my eyes so I see red and yellow spots. A young woman leans against the bus stop shelter braces. She chews gum in her open mouth, making loud snapping sounds between slurps and sucks. The bus rumbles into view and heaves to a stop. I step forward and the woman cuts in front of me to get on first. Sorry, she says, turning briefly toward me. She blows a pink bubble that bursts and sprays back on her lips. The cloying smell of gum scents the air. I am grateful that she decides to sit toward the back of the bus. I take a vacant bench seat. When I sit down, I smell the solvent of a freshly used felt pen. Still wet graffiti marks the back of the seat in front of me. The bus doors start to close. A man pushes through and laboriously enters the bus. The bus starts before he is seated. His large body sways unsteadily until he sits beside me. As the bus makes its turn, his three hundred pounds slide against me, pressing me against the metal panel. He smells of urine and sweat. I tug at the window latch until it reluctantly grinds open. A mistake. Exhaust fumes. A throbbing begins behind my burning eyes. Pound, pound, pound. Someone pulls the yellow cord for the next stop. Ding, ding, ding. Parada Stop Requested flashes red above our heads. The bus pulls to an inelegant stop, shoving us forward. The man pulls out of the seat and bounces the bus as he trundles to the exit. Late again, he said to the driver, who shrugs. Sorry, the driver says. It happens. A woman jangles onto the bus. She fumbles for change in her purse with because she holds a cup of coffee with the other. She sits beside me. Her writsts are laden with bracelets; her fingers are stiff with rings. Her thick floral scent smothers the air, mixing unhappily with the smell of the coffee. I begin to sneeze. Once. Twice. Three times. Ding, ding, ding. Parada Stop Requested. The bus charges past the blue and white sign. Driver stop! Thats my stop! Sorry. The driver yanks the bus to the curb. The woman bumps against me. Sorry, she says. Its okay. The bus lumbers forward. Could you pull the cord for me? the woman asks. I do. She rises before the bus halts completely. She sways and her cup tilts and coffee falls onto me. The liquid soaks through my blouse sleeve. I feel its heat and moisture on my skin. Sorry, she says. No problem, I lie as I dig in my purse for a tissue. A man sits down in the seat beside me. He opens his briefcase and offers me a wrinkled but clean napkin. Would this help?" Thank you. Yes, it would. I dab at the spill on my sleeve. There will be a stain. At least its the end of the day. I smell the mans light, woodsy cologne. He sits solidly in the seat with no part of him touching any part of me. He pulls headphones out of his briefcase and puts them on. I hear the slight overflow of music. La Boheme, he says and smiles as he closes his eyes. I turn back to the window. The gasoline fumes have dissipated. My head is pounding less now. We are passing a garden full of brightly blooming geraniums. Orange, red, pink the colors shimmer in the afternoon light. Somewhere honeyed alyssum must be blooming too. I dont see them but I can smell them. First and Laurel, announces the driver. I pull the cord. Excuse me, I say to the man. He is deep into his music. I touch his arm. Excuse me. He opens his eyes. Sorry. He stands up and lets me slip out of the seat. The bus jars to a stop and I push back against him. Im sorry, I say. He smiles and returns to his seat and his music. I step out into the hot hair. My hair falls across my face and I smell his cologne that has somehow attached itself to me and lingers as a faint memory of a stranger. I take a breath. A bicyclist skids in front of me on the sidewalk. We don't collide but his wheels cause small pebbles to hit against my legs. Sorry, he calls back. Were all sorry.

I'm giving up on this story...every time I read it, I see a typo. The newest version is sitting on my artist's page. Apologies to all for the reposting. Proof before post. Proof before post. Proof before post. Actually I did. It just didn't do any good.

Standing in the sun I shade my eyes and smile as I remember. Oh yes, I remember you, treacherous cobblestones. I feel you now, prodding at the soles of my lightly clad feet. You were made for hobnailed boots, not summer sandals. I walked here, years ago; a teetering teenager with hair dressed high, dangerously balanced in four inch heels. Desperately trying for poise, succeeding only as a clown. I look up past stern grey walls to the green sweep of Plymouth Hoe, past Smeatons Lighthouse with it's red-lead and white stripes and see the sun washed spot I sat upon, eating icecream with my second love, kisses and melting strawberries mingling, one eye watching the first sail away into the dusk. Did Walter sit there too? I wonder idly. The salt-stained atmosphere of Plymouth Barbican is filled today with the calls of rowdy gulls and caterwailing karaoke contestants. Light gusts of sea cooled air dance in from the channel, brushing my skirt against sun heated legs, twisting curls into my tumbled hair before moving on to grace another observer with a moments respite from the blazing sun. Gently swaying in the light sea breeze, the reeking trawlers and the gleaming yachts sit uneasily together. Sounds from the boats jangle, discordant to my whimsical ear. At sea, the noises fade into the background, but leashed here by the dull grey quay they clatter with their seaweed skirts entangled, calling out their desire to run with the tide, to the open sea beyond St Micheals Mount. I stand, with the children, amidst a summer crowd upon historic ground, where Drakes men drank and pilgrims once sought passage. We stand in modern times too, see there? Beaten silver torques displayed in tudor shopfronts,mingled with mismatched porcelain dolls and holographic postcards. Across the footbridge towers the imposing glass walled aquarium where you can see the shark and the sea horse, the turtle and the sea snake. Today the promise of shade and air-conditioning makes it more popular than ever. Not so long ago the fresh caught silver scaled fish lay on this spot, now we back away from the intense heat of the forge to squint at the glass blower showing off his craft, where once the gutting man raised his bloody knife. Outside, we wait for the fishermen, amidst the merry thousands, all gathered for the annual Fishermans Festival. We stand enthralled and exasperated, buffeted by the careless crowds and carefree breezes alike, the sun beating down on our uncovered heads. We watch the swirling crowds bring jugglers, fire breathers, the tangled scents of candy floss, seaweed, burger bars and drunks. We wait. The rackety market stall, hastily improvised as a stage each year, is cleared of uncollected trophies for the third time today, to make way for the magician and his snakes. Scabby kneed children stare wide eyed, then surge forward at the chance to touch a real boa constrictor. They don't care for the spangly costumed assistant at all, unless it looks like the snakes might crush her. We still wait for the fishermen. The half heartedly polished trophies are out again, removed from the battered cardboard box and arranged haphazardly on a bed of grocers green plastic. Word runs round the restless crowd, a sussuration of rising whispers that crescendo in a laugh. We wait because the fishermen are all in the pub. They do not want their trophies, for best boat, best catch, best year. They want their Plymouth Gin, their Lambs Navy Rum, their beer. Bleached blonde,brunette and steel gray alike, the tipsy wives stagger up to the lonely podium, the smoke and alcohol haze that accompanies them makes it clear they have been drinking all day. Laughing raucously they randomly scoop up trophies and weave their way back to their men. As they did last year, and the year before. The fishermen hold their own festival at the bar, roughened sea dogs with sea creased faces and fresh faced boys with ocean bleached hair, all soaked in brine and alcohol. The happy crowd wanders away, to engage in light-hearted slanging matches with the hapless karaoke crowd, to gorge on fish and chips, pungent pickled eggs and sea-odoured eel. Many of the men slink away to join the fisherman in a celebratory pint or three. My feet aching, I gather my tired charges, the sticky faced, sweet blemished children. We leave the fishermen and the dancing crowds to their fun.

29 Palms J. M. Strother The red gray dust billowed in a long expanding cloud behind us as we drove down the hard pack road. To the right the flat expanse of desert rolled on, seemingly forever, broken here and there by squat gnarled trees, ancient tumbled stones, and spotty clumps of bleached grass, brown scrub, and cacti. Godforsaken was an apt description. It amazed me that anyone had ever crossed this land in wagons over a century before, and lived to tell about it. More amazing still, others ranged this barren land long before the wagons rolled, and called it home. To the left a long range of broken peaks, not really tall enough to be called mountains, at least to my mind, rose up steeply from the desert floor. Remnants from an age that predated even the nomadic natives of this land, the result of two great tectonic plates colliding, thrusting the very earth skyward. A mix of basalt black and sandstone reds, the colors contrasted sharply in the bright midday sun. And in stark contrast to both red and black, deep green shocks lie scattered along the length of the rift, where fault lines deep underground intersect deeply buried aquifers, allowing life giving waters to seep up to see the sun. Oases. I had never seen an oasis, except in movies. Now we trekked this barren land to see one first hand. I was not impressed. They still lay off some distance, seemingly insignificant mounds of green, dwarfed by the rugged steep cliffs just beyond. Some boulders lay scattered along the cliff side too, randomly arrayed. Some of these rocks were bigger than the mounds of green, making the mounds seem all the more unimpressive. We slowed as we approached the T intersection and the dust cloud began to overtake us. There was a sign, once stained deep brown with bright yellow lettering. Now the colors were so faded that it was hard to tell them apart. It simply read, Twentynine Palms. So what do you think? Dave asked as he turned on the left blinker. We came this far, I shrugged. Might as well see what it's like. I've never been to an oasis. It'll be fun, Buz put in from the back seat. Buz could find something fun in almost anything. Dave turned onto the access road. The access road proved longer than it had appeared. The desert does that, dwarfs things in its vast expanse. As we approached the parking lot we noticed the trailer to one side. Torn screens, storm door ajar, curtains leached of all color. The finish was so blistered and faded by the sun that we could not tell what the original color had been, or perhaps it had been bare aluminum from the start. Storage unit? Caretaker's house? Or just an abandoned tailer? We could not tell. Dave pulled to a stop in the chat parking lot and waited till most of the dust cloud drifted past before he shut off the engine, thus killing our air conditioning. The car immediately began to heat up, so we piled out. Surprisingly, the heat was not overbearing. The humidity was low and there was a constant moderating breeze. Soon all remnants of our dust cloud were gone. The oasis looked a little bigger now, and did not shoot straight up from the desert floor without transition, as had appeared from the main road. From here we could see that it was surrounded by grasses which got progressively taller towards the trees. Near the parking lot where we stood the grass grew in spotty clumps, bleached blond by sun and wind, and was little more than ankle high. Broad bare reddish patches of soil made natural pathways that wend hither and yon. As we walked these natural paths they grew narrower and the grasses taller as we approached the trees. Soon the grass filled in all about us, fully chest high. We walked cautiously, yet noisily, to scare off any lurking snakes. We broke through the grasses in a sudden burst and found ourselves standing under the eaves of looming palms. What we had taken as insignificant trees from the road were tall and magnificent specimens, as tall as many hardwood species to be found back in Missouri, with trunks of comparable girth. Only then did we realize the size of the rocks we had seen scattered near the base of the uplift, rocks that had made these oases seem small in comparison. This realization in turn put the mountains, that I had just moments ago thought to be too low to be proper mountains, into perspective. The desert is an amazing place. Again, broad natural pathways opened up before us, cutting in and out among the shaggy palm trunks. We took a few steps into the oasis and the atmosphere changed around us. The temperature must have dropped 20 degrees, the air no longer felt hot and dry, but cool and moist, and carried a pleasant loamy smell on its gentle breezes. Life teamed around and above. The voices of hundreds of birds twittered; bright feathered birds streaked from tree to tree or from tree to ground, landing just feet away from us, completely unconcerned at our intrusion. Duller brown birds sat in small clusters here and there, some chittering - arguing among themselves, others boldly singing quick cheerful songs trying to attract a mate. We went deeper into the oasis and our whole world began to take on a luminous green tint, as the living dome above us filtered the sunlight. The ground was soft, yet firm, the paths worn smooth by many passing feet. I realized that these paths, while widened and smoothed by many tourists like myself, were ancient too; originally animal traces formed by the constant need for water. We walked in silent awe of this place, drifting together and apart, each lost in our own thoughts. The overall shape of the oasis was circular, dipping down towards the center, where the foliage grew very thick indeed. Buz and I headed down a run, what started out as a well worn path, presuming to find a tranquil central pool at its end. The path did not cooperate, quickly closed in to dense underbrush, and then completely disappeared. Again the temperature as noticeably cooler, and the ground beneath our feet began to get springy, if not a little soggy. We both stopped at about the same instant, hesitant to go on. Do you think there could be any quicksand around here? I asked. I don't know. We just did not know, about quicksand, about snakes, about anything to do with this alien environment. It was like another world. We could hear small animals scurrying around in the underbrush, just a few feet from where we stood. Buz's ankles, fully exposed since he was wearing shorts, looked very vulnerable. Discretion proved the better part of valor and we retraced our steps back to the rim of the depression to continue exploring safer grounds. We found Dave sitting on a mound just outside the canopy, but still in the shade of the trees, with a look of shear contentment on his face. Curious, we wandered over to where he sat and found a sharp drop off formed by a series of sinkholes, all in a row. A tiny stream ran at the bottom, connecting them all. Water bubbled from one pool down to the next, disappearing at the end of the last sink, just as it had appeared up above. Lush green grasses grew on either bank. I just saw a frog, Dave said with a wry smile. The stream below was only inches wide, broadening now and then into pools no more than my shoulder's width. Tiny silver fish swam in the pools, lazily drifting with the current until a sudden spurt of energy took them back to their starting positions. How the heck do fish end up way out here? I mused. I'll bet there are mountain lions, Dave speculated, At dusk. And dawn. Maybe deer. I gazed about, across the blond grasses and open scrub to the broken uplift beyond. Behind me stood tall palm trees, bearded in long dead fonds which nested hosts of birds. Beyond the palms yellowed grasses, and then sage brush and saguaro as far as the eye could see. We sat down beside Dave in reverent silence, three souls who had found a deep inner peace in the middle of a desert, a desert teaming with life.

Spooky....I got an ebot saying you'd posted that jstro about 5 minutes before it appeared on the page. Shanna :-) Gosh, we've got some good entries this month.

I think Jon may have posted, deleted, and posted again. I saw the story, it disappeared, and then it reappeared. But since I tend to have a bad habit of premature posting which results in multiple deletes, I can't criticize. ;) You're right, Shanna. Good entires. Difficult choices. That's a good thing.

That's the edit function. Post, realize you've got an error, and quickly delete. Who says you can't edit here? ;-) jon

Sun beat down and harassed those with weary eyes from a night stayed to long. The skies painted blue, were touched by cotton ball clouds, seemingly unending shapes and sizes and yet each a perfection all it's own. I stay up late most nights, the moon steals the skies from the sun, rising high to stake a vigil against it's black-blue backdrop, sometimes I am awake early enough to see the sun steal it back. This day, the sunlight streaming in through streaked windows and sheer curtains yellowed somewhat, beckoned me out of doors. I stood barefoot upon tar filled balcony, the old rug unraveling at the edges that it's loose strings catch and cling to the thick black goo. Curling my toes against the carpeting I can feel the slight dampness from previous rains in days past, though I do not retreat. Glancing up and down the street, the cars seem to all be gone for the day, I imagine some parked before great high rise buildings with reflective glass windows, tinted and painted a silvery blue. Raising my head an inch I can see those very buildings, they rise up in towering states, above the rooftops of comfortable homes and trees, off in the distance. A slight breeze rustles by, it teases the leaves of the tree in the yard on my right, the white blooms already shedding their petals as summer presses forward.

Slipping down into one of the white plastic chairs, it's surface dirtied from being out of doors too long and without attention. I cross my right ankle over my left and lean back, my hands curled at the ends of the chairs arms. I watch as the wind beckons the canopy of trees into a swaying dance, the long grass left un-mowed picks up the tune and the sun, the sun beats down like a giant spotlight on the whole of the spring day, forcing the music to play for my eyes.

At that moment, in my navy joggers and T-shirt, my hair whispering around my cheeks having fallen astray from the quick pony tail, I was somewhere else. A beach perhaps, where a breeze caressed my warmed flesh baking under the sun, the cool touch of sand between my toes. Closing my eyes I see more vividly the myriad of colors, the brilliant emeralds and vibrant blooms, they all rush together in a splash of spilt colors behind my eyes.

Just as suddenly as envisioned, it fades. The dream like state broken by the creaking of the screen door that has need of oil, and the soft voice of youth,

"Mommy, what are you doing?"

Opening my eyes, the light seems somewhat more intense, the color more vibrant as if it were just freshly painted. The chipped and weather worn railing before me, the paved road ahead and the old, faded carpet underfoot. Glancing toward my daughter I smile, the reflection of her own there on her face, curiosity apparent for having been left alone the eternity I slipped into my mind.

"I was getting some air." I say softly, though she doesn't understand and raises up her arms. I lift her up, taking her too my hip and recall when she'd been much more easy to position. She lifts a hand to brush at her blonde curls as the breeze teases them, her blue eyes alight as she glances around.

"Wello!" She says, with exuberance and an excitement so innocent over something so simple.

"Yellow," I repeat, pointing toward the flowers across the road encircling the tall, wooden privacy fence. "Pretty?" I say turning and pulling at the door, hearing the creak as it gives and stepping inside.

"Yes, pretty." She responds, her small hand clutching my shirt, entangling my hair in her fingers.

I turn and cast another glance outside, through dirty windows. Just another day, though somehow shared through my daughters eyes the sun appeared more brilliant, the colors more full of life in their vibrancy, the winds gentled and the swaying melody of spring so much more sweet.

Sandra She discovered herself in the mirror. Leaning on the basin, she pulled back a strand of thin yellow hair with the thumb of her cigarette hand. The bruise around her left eye was losing its color, but was still tender. The episode in which it blossomed played in her thoughts like a Friday night rerun you just keep watching, out of boredom, out of complacency; never moved enough to change the channel. She took a metered drag from her cigarette. The smoke didnt burn her lungs. Shed been smoking since she was thirteen. It was habit, but she wasnt sure if she was addicted. She had never wanted to stop smoking. She didnt want to now. How could she know if she was addicted or not, unless she stopped. She blew the smoke out of her mouth in a torrent. It mushroomed on her face in the mirror, then dissipated slowly. She thought of her brother Jessie when he was on junk. He had told her he quit for a week, so he knew he wasnt addicted yet. But he shot up that night. It was wishful thinking, she new. He was fooling himself. Was she fooling herself, she thought? What is it which sets us apart from the rest of the animals, our expanded brain power or our advanced skill in convincing ourselves of anything? Jessie died last year, twenty-four years old. He was her brother, being what she thought a brother should be, but he was hardly around when she entered her late teens. Thats when she married Daniel. They started dating when she was thirteen, then tapered on and off until she was fifteen; then they got serious. Daniel was a senior; she met him at a football game. He and Kevin Mahue were sitting behind her and Sarah Flemming, flirting and dropping popcorn on them. Later that night, they had gone to his old-mans garage out side of town. They had gotten drunk in the office. How clean and tidy that office was, shell always remember. She had a notion that Daniel would be like his father. But there was little clean and tidy about her husband. Funny, how the single thing that impressed her about her future husband was a trait of someone else, a trait he didnt share. They got married when she turned seventeen, with her parents consent. Five years later, she hated the man. She knew he didnt hate her, but she didnt understand the violence or his capacity to forgive himself. He was not an evil man, but none the less, he was hurtful. She did not love him, and she was not loved. She was smart enough to not expect storybook love, but whispered in prayers, told in bathroom girl-talk is the hint of something, some powerful benevolent caring that heals and compels a person to better herself. What is that? Where is that? It must exist in some form, if not only in the happily ever after endings of romantic comedies, in some other form perhaps, an obscure truth of pop culture and mythology. Something, some feeling or desire has occurred at one point to cause these myths. If only to partake a little, could she feel whole? Sarah Flemming had been her best friend; she never married; went to college in Boston and became a graphic artist. They talked on the phone off and on, but less and less, lately. Last Christmas, she actually chastised her for not leaving Daniel. Sandra, you are too smart to put up with this shit, she had said. Even with a voice thinned by distance and technology, it resounded with great influence. Honey, you should have gone to college. And pretty too, youd have no problem finding a man at the university. It wouldnt be to hard to upgrade from your present condition. These last words hurt, hurt to the core. She had the feeling of a little girl when mom says just wait till your dad gets home, sister! The face in front of her looked familiar, a close relative. Young, pretty; it had the eyes of one beginning to see what was on the other side of the hill. She knew this person well. But there were questions about her character. Could she be counted on? Could she love? Could she be a mom? A bumper sticker came to mind - Having a child does not make one a parent any more than owning a brush makes one a artist. Sandra stepped back to view more of her form. She rubbed her small belly with her right hand. She was thin, the envy of her friends. She held the cigarette up in her left hand. The visage somehow looked ugly, not glamorous like the advertisements. She threw the cigarette into the toilet; it hissed its contempt. Now she wanted to quit smoking. Sandra was surprised how quickly she had gathered her belongings. A time constraint also kept her frugal; Daniel was no longer passed out in his Lazy Boy, but sleeping. He didnt snore when he was passed out. She stood between him and the door. He did not look peaceful in his sleep, but agitated. All the years they were together, he did not reveal what made him so pissed off at the world. What was he afraid of? She could not figure it out. He twitched, but she was not afraid of him waking up. This was to be. She studied his face. He frowned, as if some subconscious voice told him what she was doing. Sandras world fit into two medium suitcases, which she threw into the back seat of her pearl white 68 Camaro. She did not use the trunk because she would have had to slam it. She still felt confident, but didnt want to test fate. Her jeans felt a little tight when she sat down; she adjusted them. She fired up the beast, working the gas and clutch with bare feet. The car was not quiet, but she drove off without incidence. Sandra saw Mary Weaver watch her drive away from her kitchen window.

Anyone mind if I play?

Theres nothing like it.

The smell of a city. Trudging up the long flight of steps, emerging blinking from the bowels of the earth, a smell like no other hits you. Its not the best smell, but its not the worst either. It isunique. And theres nothing else like it.

You dont really notice it at first. Youre too busy clearing the odor of too many people stuffed into a small metal tube out of your nose, the whispered conversations washing over you, the sound still fading after youve left the train. Then everyone else gets off the train and the hum of people talking continues out onto the platform, punctuated by the slap of running feet , the shouts and loud laughter of teenagers.

On the platform are hundreds of people, a hairy sea of heads. Occasionally the face of a tall person will break the surface for a moment and then disappear, never to be seen again. Some people look bored, some are hurried. Everyone can tell who the tourists are: a camera somewhere; slung around the neck or dangling from a wrist. Always looking at maps, or train schedules. Some have had it and do nothing but stare at the concrete wall across the tracks with a blank expression, mouth slightly open, head cocked to one side. Sometimes you get lucky and can see the silver string of drool dangling from the corner of their mouths.

Everyone heads for the exits in an orderly fashion, but order descends into chaos when everyone reaches the stairs. Civility is pushed aside along with everyone else as the mad crush begins for the right to be the first up the steps.

Shoulders pulled in close, head held high simply because there is no other choice, you shuffle up the steps. All the other people shuffle with you, because they also have no choice in the matter. You feel knees bump you from behind, the elbow of the person on your right damn near cracks one of your ribs, and the people in front always seem to want to stop while all the others in the rear push you so that your face almost ends up in some perfect strangers butt.

You still cant smell that city smell because the steps are like a wind tunnel. The air rushes down on you, bringing with it only the heat or cold from the streets above. It can never be warm on the steps of a subway. Its always either hot and muggy, or bitterly cold.

Then, the steps start to widen out, you can see the exit ahead of you, the corner of the building across the street, windows glittering. People passing by. The wind starts to die off as you get closer to the exit, and then it hits you. The smell of a city.

The most wonderful assortment of smells, an amalgam of heat, sweat, urine, food, coffee, car exhaust, burnt rubber, rotting garbage, hot pavement, fresh bread, and a thousand other things that you either cant identify or dont want to. The rush of cars, the conversations, hawkers outside of shops yelling at passerby, airplanes overhead, the sound of thousands of people moving, it all washes over you. No matter how many times youve done it before, it still takes a moment to take it all in.

Theres nothing like it.

Mike

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