What better place to die than Death Valley

Heat and sunlight beat down mercilessly out of the cloudless sky. It can be felt as a throbbing against dry, ashy, feverish skin. No trace of moisture is held in the air as hot as an oven. It is a wonder anything survives here at all. A few scraggly brown bushes, and the ever present cactus. How could anything get that big out here, here in the middle of nothing, nothing. Breathing is a torment, the dry air parching the throat. If you could, you would stop breathing to find a bit of relief. Feet have become long numb to the searing heat of the sand, callouses forming, it is hard to walk in a straight line in the best of circumstances in this desert, but being dehydrated makes it almost impossible. The shade of a large cactus is a welcome reprieve from the tortuous sun and heat. It doesn't even matter that the spikes are a good inch and a half long. Doesn't matter. Mirages promise water and deliver hell in return, shimmering oh so invitingly just out of reach.

Book of Dead Names

The Book of Dead Names was a shambles from the outside. It was a in a seedy neighborhood that butted up against the ritzy neighborhood where the stars, tycoons, and politicos let down their hair for the weekend. They rolled up in their limos and strolled down red carpets and didn’t see, halfway down the nearest alley, a simple wooden door.

The wood was old and dark with age, an anachronism against the city concrete, and the brick walls were riddled with old bullet holes. Just inside the door was a cramped hallway lined with hooks from which hung a dazzling array of coats, jackets, cloaks, cardigans, and more. Beyond the maze of coats, too reminiscent of a wardrobe leading to another world, was the Book of Dead Names itself.

It looked like an ancient library in a manor house, only there was a bar along the back wall, long and straight and staffed by a trio of forgettable but strangely identical young men in suits. The walls were lined with books and paneled with velvet. The carpet was deep red, plush, and thick velvet drapes separated a single room into intimate nooks and crannies where tables for two and three nestled. Each table was antique and different, as if the proprietors of the place had hit up a multitude of estate sales from the seventeenth century onward. Some tables had games on them - chess, checkers, go - and others had tall, thin glass vases overflowing with artfully arranged corpses of flowers. The light - from overhead, in a creaking chandelier; from the walls in sconces; from the tables, in lamps - was all candles, all soft and warm and golden.

It was the perfect place to escape every day world, and a perfect excuse to never go back.

(296 words)

Safe Harbor?

Wind, cold and biting, howls across the open expanse of the beach. Sand turned into a stinging wall. Wave upon wave march into the shallows, crashing and sending up a drenching spray. Gulls cry cheerlessly overhead and the sun plays hide and don't seek in the gray clouds. Lighting strikes the waves.
Light flashes and disappears, repeating again and again, as old as time. It flows from the rocky, barren jut of land that dares to protrude into the icy dark waters. Fog mists across the land, obscuring everything, save for the light. A low bellow, more of a moan really comes from the mists, warning of dangers; of the rocks and the shallows. It warns and guides ships, if any there are that are foolish enough to try to make port on a day like this, safely into the harbor.

My Own Prison

The sound of the water dripping from the crack in the mortar at the top corner might have been enough to drive a man mad, if he had not been already mad enough to lie in the middle of the flagstones and count the other flagstones on the remaining five surfaces and assign them names. The one with the pebbles shoved into the corner to make its edges line up ought to have some sort of masculine name, for its surface was rough. Some of the other flagstones were made of a darker rock, curiously smooth, either by age or by nature. The mortar between each rectangular piece of hell was surprisingly white up in the ceiling, but darkened as it approached the floor, approached the misery huddled in the middle of it all. The door was made of iron, rusted dark with time and water, and creaked when opened, clanked like a cannon when slammed. The flab in the bottom of the door was just large enough to fit a soup ladle through, though the flat tin dish of tepid soup was long untouched. A window - high, slanting, barely enough to let in sunlight - broke the uniform precision of the flagstones and bricks, and the air that seeped down was salty, from the sea. The constant drip of water was enough to drive a man mad, but after dark, the pattering of tiny feet and the swish of worm-like tails was enough to drive a man to terror.

Summer Fun

Voices echo off of the damp red sandstone. Some in German, some in Italian, and others that are unidentifiable. The almost inaudible click of cameras are a steady background hum. The scrape of sneakers on the rough stone is a counterpoint. Fingers seek holds in the rock, muscles working in unison to pull yourself up the precarious cliff-face. Hands scrabble for purchase as climbers scuttle up the rock face and underneath the ridge that is Double Arch. Rain sheets out of the sky, mottling and then staining the exposed rock. The rough shelves remain dry, water cascading past. You could reach out and touch it. Peering over the edge, it is a wonder that you were able to get up here in the first place. From the bottom it seems impossibly high, and from the top, even more so. The rock is scarred from nature and people. Danny loves jenny, or so it says. And now to get down again. Sliding down, you swear you are going to wear a hole in the butt of your pants. It was worth it for the perfect shot, the shot that you only could have gotten from inside Double Arch.
******

The narrow canyon holds an even narrower path, twisting and turning. Revealing and then hiding breathtaking vista's. Our goal is Pine Tree Arch. Should have brought a walking stick.

********

Getting to Delicate Arch is no picnic. Slick rock itself seems a daunting task. It is three quarters of a mile to get to slick rock, up and down paths, that teem with hikers, both coming and going. and then you are faced with slick rock. A vast expanse of exposed red rock, steep and treacherous when wet. Carin lead the way. After slick rock you are faced with another though part of the trail, over and around you follow only the Carin. At last you come around a turn, and there it is, Delicate Arch, standing as a lone sentinel for the valley below.

(We hiked many arches, but I thought I would limit myself to three. Pictures can be found on Facebook, under the Arches Trip.)

Hideaway

The sound of the water from behind the waterfall was an almost deafening roar, multiplied and refracted by the rocky surface. On the other side of the watery curtain, sunlight filtered through the trees, green and gold, and set the dust-motes in the pool alight like the flecks of gold in a piece of tiger's eye. But behind the waterfall was the best place. The roof was low, but not so low as to force a stoop, and the walls were rough, rounded, with the occasional surprise stalactites and stalagmites, and the ground was equally rough, but a steady nest of blankets and scraps had rendered a space at the back fit for human living. Just beyond the grasp of the light, where the bright brown succumbed to black shadow, someone had hewn a shelf into the wall and littered it with treasures - a piece of colored glass worn smooth by water and time, a piece of rock with the fossil of a leaf imprinted, a whistle made of bone, and an old leather-bound Bible lined with a spider-web of names printed in Cyrillic. It was a safe place to hide, and peaceful. When the roar of the waterfall faded into the background, the rest was silence.

(210 words)

Change

"Everything changes," Joe said.

"And everything stays the same," Kevin shot back. "Enough with the sentiments. You boys read or what?"

"Ready!" they chorused.

Kevin checked his rifle one last time, then peered over the ridge of their trench. A row of tan hats across no man's land peeked over the ridge of the opposite trench.

And then there was the barbed wire too.

"Something's changing, I can feel it," Joe said, and the green gas hit.

Making Camp

Canvas tents, colorless from exposure to the weather, form a neat grid in parallel rows marked out by stakes and ropes by the pickets who ran on ahead. A campfire ringed with muddy stones marks the center of the camp. The fire that crackles in the middle is smoky from the damp wood, and grey-uniformed boys build a pile of boughs and twigs off to one side of it. A large black pot, dangling from a make-shift tripod, hangs over the slow flames, and the scent of fern stew washes over the crowd of young men gathered at the fire. Some rest, stretched along the carpet of dead leaves and pine needles, knapsacks as pillows, hats tilted over their faces to block out the white-blinding sun and the haze of black motion that is a swarm of gnats that never seems to leave. Rifles are scattered here and there like fallen matchsticks, though they are laid with a certain deliberately insouciant air, and each is within hand’s reach of at least one man. The largest tent, closest to the fire, has its front flaps open, and inside is a morass of boxes, papers, and glass lanterns so the commanders can study the night away. The clerk’s desk - wooden, rickety, a relic from a big-time law-firm in a small town - is tucked into the corner, stained with ink and covered with quills, a pen knife incongruously tucked into the midst of the feathers. At the edge of the camp, also in a scrupulously neat row, is a series of wooden crosses, cobbled together by twine and someone’s bowie knife, hammered into place my a rifle butt, and twined with garlands of dead flowers.

(287 Words)

Possible Adventure Awaits

Quartz columns rose tall, topped by a dome that glowed in the early morning sunlight. A granite bench sat in the precise center of the dome, looking up one could see a circle that one could imagine watching the stars through. Ancient trees bordered the clearing that is filled with lush grass and spring wild flowers. The sky is an impossible blue, mirrored by a small pond next to the stately structure. A path flows from the small sanctuary along the curve of the pond and into the woods. Roses grow in profusion along the pond, butterflies playing tag in the bushes. Wind whispers through the trees, promises of adventure carried on the breeze, beckoning you to follow to what ever end it held.
A soft tread is heard and a lithe figure moves into sight. Tall and beautiful, he is fluid even in in stillness. Bright green eyes watch out of an intelligent looking face. Black hair hangs long, tied back. His clothing would allow him to fade back into the trees. Is this the promised adventure?

Sector Quarters

Sector quarters in central looked like jumped-up dormitories. There was little privacy to be had for the six agents, but the commander had a bunk of her own separated by a flimsy curtain. The beds, at least, were large and comfortable, because wet-work agents had to be well-rested and at their physical peak to perform their job duties properly. The plainest of the sector quarters had seven beds, seven desks, seven drawer bureaus, and two bathrooms to keep everyone clean. Each desk - cheap faux-wood topped, wobbly legs - was equipped with a computer and a telephone. The mini-kitchen would have barely fed three college boys, and the den was cramped, but the space was habitable. Some sectors who managed to agree on something had a television or a sound-system installed as well, but it came at their own expense and they took it with them.

Sector five’s quarters were spartan spare and neat. All the beds were made to military inspection, firm enough to bounce a quarter off of. Uniforms and towels were folded at the foot of each bed, and seven pairs of shoes lined the wall just inside the door. The desks were organized with everything at right angles. The carpet - plain grey flecked with blue - was scrupulously vacuumed, and it looked as though no one lived there at all.

Except for the morass of electronics that took up the den in one corner. The latest in all gaming technology was to be had in a complicated web of wires artfully spliced and plugged and twined together. The sound system - connected to the sleek, thin, flat-screen television - was wired up all along the walls for surround sound.

And stacked against the walls was the greatest collection of fantasy RPGs ever owned.

My Sometimes Personal Hell.

Steam billows out of pots. Something that looks like a cauldron sits in a corner, squat and fat; issuing forth thin streams of steam, only this one is gleaming silver instead of crusted black with age. Peering inside one can see bones of some as yet unidentified amount of chicken, along with bits of vegetables. The air itself shimmers as heat rolls off of the long flat-top. Almost every burner is occupied with pots or pans. Some reducing sauces, some holding mixtures of fluid and solid, waiting to be turned into soup. The floor is mottled concrete, white and yellow embedded in it's surface; which is all littered with a few peels here and there, a stray mushroom or a puddle of water. People walk back and forth, not exactly hurrying, but not slacking either. Calls echo through the room, warning of hot pots or the passage of a person. Delicious scents poor out of the various pots and out of the ovens. The hum of the coolers, the din of the hoods, and the swish, slam and rumble, slosh of the dishwasher are the accompaniment to this cacophony of sounds. Not to mention the splash of a person trying to prevent another flood, much like a sailor bails a leaky boat, it is a constant chore to keep the kitchen afloat, and water free. Hot fat sizzles in a pan, and hisses, flames leaping as food is added. The oven door opens and closes in an irregular pattern, usually with another bang. The clack of a wooden spoon as it hits the floor is followed by a low curse of frustration. Greetings are called out as residents pass by, gossip and news being exchanged. The swinging door bangs against the frame it sits in. A quiet hiss and click is heard as vegetables are cut, followed by the slightly sinister sound of metal on metal as a knife is sharpened. There is a sharp clatter as an empty pan is dropped. The food piles up in the back room as it is delivered throughout the day. Music plays in the background. And at the end of the night all is silence and darkness.


(354 words. Yes the kitchen really is this noisy.)

The Law Library

The library at the law school is a vast contradiction of Victorian grandeur and modern technological convenience. The walls and dividers, bookcases and desks, are made of a suspiciously red shade of deep, dark wood that is too red to be real rosewood or cherry wood, and the walls, desks, bookcases are just a shade different - orange, really, like orange sauce on orange chicken, and it all smacks of woodstain instead of wholesale slaughter of trees of a particular breed. The soothing tones of the wood, coupled with the warm, golden light from overhead is enough to make one pretend that one is in the vast library of a victorian manor, searching through books full of information otherwise lost to the ages. The bookshelves - affectionately called the stacks by the students - are lined up in perfect military precision, like soldiers awaiting deployment - or giant dominos just waiting to be knocked over, to cause a miniature earthquake and an explosion of dusty pages and creaking leather bindings. The desk tops, the carpets, they’re all a mottled shade of greys, blues, and whites, the desks like faux granite, the carpets as if someone had drawn a rhomboid labyrinth in white chalk on blue-grey granite and then smudged it all, leaving the lines fuzzy and indistinct. The windows overlook the parking lot, a sky that is grey with winter and city life and a a smattering of students, dashing to and fro, all bundled up to ward off the cold. Libraries are too quiet and best viewed with music playing in one’s ears for none of the world to hear, and then it’s easy to imagine the opening panning shots of a film across the grandeur of a stately library in a mansion.

And then comes the scent of studious desperation.

(299 words - and yes, I was totally in the library when I wrote this)

Project #13: Places

That's right. Places! This week's assignment is to describe places, either places you've been, you are, or you've thought up as backdrops for stories you've written, are writing, or imagine one day you might write. No dialogue, maybe a character for point-of-view or something, but go ahead, pull a Charles Dickens or an Anne Rice and wax as poetical as you like (just kidding, keep it to prose) about a place. Any place. 100-300 words. Apologies for this being a day late.

Overview #12 Random phrase.

My only excuse for lack of posting is that sickness, life, and writers block all hit at once.

It was a good challenge, but I was terrible at posting. End of discussion. This next week should be better.

Overview #12 - Random Phrase

I'm not sure that this week's challenge ended up being what we wanted it to be, but it was good times nonetheless. I'd been meaning to do a dialogue-only challenge, and I suppose this sort of took its place. It was fun, remembering how much implication can be had in dialogue alone, which is, to me at least, what makes reading plays so much fun. Life hit us both at the same time, so any other readers - I suspect there are none - may have been shortchanged, but c'est la vie.