Smoke in the Night

Smoke curled out of the darkness. It was dark, but not quiet. Screams echoed in the night, masses of people crowding the night. Some were crying, some staring, others stood in disbelief of what was happening. Men in uniform were trying to keep order, and not managing very well against the surges of humanity. Lights flashed in the darkness, partially lighting the night. Smoke billowed thicker,the crowd's noise increasing. crackling could be heard, increasing in volume. Blinding floodlights illuminated the area and the first chords were struck.

Whispering

Bending and swaying it dances in the slightest gust of air, bowing low only to spring up again. It can be increased to a roar or reduced to a whisper. It can be snuffed out, only to have it's kin revive it. The air practically shimmers near it's core. It would give off a pure tone if it could be heard. Primal and essential, it is a building block of our world.

Into the Wild

The air itself seemed green. Vines hung heavy from the towering moss covered trees and water dripped steadily down from the canopy overhead. Rich loamy soil was black underfoot; a multitude of plant life springing up from the ground. Brightly colored lizards and frogs slithered along the ground. The air was alive with the calls of exotic birds.

Kevin pushed his way through thick vegetation, clearing a narrow path with his machete. Sweat poured down his face in the thick heat of the afternoon. His clothes were damp from a passing rain storm that only added to his discomfort.

Kevin paused his efforts to mop his face. Twigs snapped nearby and Kevin dropped to the ground, seeking shelter behind a large fern. Peeking out between fronds, Kevin saw black fur passing by. A large panther was dragging the carcass of a small deer like animal. Kevin watched the panther scale a tree, wedging its prey between some branches.

Once he was sure that the predator was occupied with its meal Kevin rose from his place and quietly slunk away.

Another Memory

Rain misted out the the gray sky, soaking into the green countryside. Narrow roads followed stone walls that partitioned tracts of land. Cows and sheep chewed quietly in the fields, paying no attention to the passing world. The scent of wild onions drifted on the breeze, mixing with the tangible breath of life from the growing plants. The air was crisp and clear.

Kyle stood, leaning against a low stone wall beneath a tree, watching the blossoms of flowers bend gently in the wind. His brown hair was matted to his head; a curious smile gracing his mouth. His wiry body was encased in a old leather jacket and blue jeans, the rain making rivulets down the leather. His sturdy boots were encrusted with mud. A small pack rested on the ground next to him, filled with dried fruit and jerky, a small map covered in dots, a small bound journal and a sketchbook. He had just left a small town behind him, his destination, another small town. He didn't stay long in any one area. There was another dot added to his map as he left the town. He didn't mind sleeping out of doors.

The rain let up and Kyle looked up at they sky. The sun seemed as if it would make an appearance, and so he decided to continue to the next town. Shouldering his pack, Kyle stepped out from under the tree and hummed a tune as he walked down the country road. Another town, another memory.

A New Path

Samantha stepped out of her hotel into the bright Mediterranean light. The light here felt more palpable her than at home, as if she could reach out and touch it. The air was warm, but not hot yet, it was still morning.

Sam placed her feet carefully on the uneven cobblestones, walking down the old village street, her camera out to capture the essence of her travels. Old men and women sit at small cafes that have been there for hundreds of years. The peacefulness of the town broken by the chatter of people on cell phones and the buzzing of scooters. Tradition meeting modern convenience.

Sam looked up at the sun, shading her eyes, as the bells from a church down the road tolled the hour. Sam crossed the street and entered the market. Merchants calling out their wares in a language that Sam barely understood. The air was heavy with ripe scents. Piquant spices, heady smelling cheeses, sweet tomatoes and fresh herbs. Money changed hands as Sam bought a small loaf of fresh bread and walked on.

A flock of pidgins took flight as Sam approached the canals. The water flowed by at a leisurely pace, as if matching the speed of life. Painters had set up their easels near the crossroads of the canals, some painting while others were displaying their wares.

Sam approached a line of boats moored in the canal, considering each in turn as she waled by, many of the boatmen calling to her. Sam finally stopped near the end when she heard a soft, gentle voice call out to her in accented English. "Scusi Signorina, you would like a ride? It is a beautiful day for one."

Sam looked up at the young man. He had black hair and a deep olive complexion. His smile showed even white teeth and dimples in his cheeks. Curiously, he had bright blue eyes instead of the black eyes of his countrymen. He leaned against his pole that would propel his craft through the canal.

"Hi," Sam said stepping towards the small boat. The young man stepped forward and offered her his hand to climb aboard. Sam grasped his warm calloused hand and stepped easily into the boat. She was steered to a cushioned seat in the middle of the boat; and the man took his place at the front.

"Where would you like to go Signorina?" The man asked as he steered the boat away from the dock.

"I wish to see something beautiful. Where would you go?" Sam asked.

His dimples returned as he flashed a smile. "I know the best spot Signorina." He pushed off in a new direction towards a quiet canal, lined with hanging gardens and ancient churches.

Gift From a Friend

Silky smooth and cool to the touch, it lay on the table, full of promise. A heady aroma floated up from the soft and supple leather. Finely stitched and even finer grain spoke of elegance and a touch of anachronism. Gilt edges are slightly worn with time and use. The paper is thick and off-white; covered with a close and careful hand at times and loose hurried scrawl at others, capturing words. Words that flowed, occasionally, from the delicate quill pen that lay near the inkwell on the table, other times from a serviceable and worn fountain pen. Words expressing a soul, a life and a passion. Words that are hidden from the world, tucked carefully away on the shelf, waiting for an addition.

Spring Joys

Brightly stitched cloth flutters up into the sky, born aloft by a warm breeze out of the south. The fresh scents of spring lay heavy in the air that sends up a kite. Blues and greens swirl across the nylon fabric, it looks like waves in they sky. String is played out bit by bit, keeping just enough tension to keep it in the air. As it rises slowly in the golden light of they day it takes less effort to keep it in the air, and more to keep it connected to the ground, and the hand that controls it.

New Skin

It is strange how such a little drop of goo can cause such pain at the same time that it begins the healing process. Strange how a small point of pain spreads with application to cause widespread throbbing, intense pain. What a strange invention, a single swipe provides you with protection and essentially a new skin to protect your wounds as your own skin heals and regrows. And I suppose it is an improvement, at least we are not using superglue anymore to close a cut in a pinch. The included antiseptic is also an improvement, sanitation is a big thing these days. I wish they would add a numbing agent to it as well.

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.

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.

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.