Flat Land

The land is flat, stretching on and on for miles and miles.  Going to places I cannot imagine. The earth is pale brown. Parched. It has settled on a hue where yellow, white and brown converge into a shade so lacking in green it can only produce dust. For as far as I can see, the earth is bare and mute, lacking trees, shrubs, blades of grass.
No houses, cars, buildings of any sort.  It is pure flat dusty earth.  The only signs of human life are the two lane highway and an old bus stop.
The wind is continuous, blowing gusts of super fine, dry earth up in pale sandy curtains that at times become so furious they momentarily fade the glare of the sun. 
The road is just in front of me.  A narrow strip of tar once bright black, but now dulled by creeping sandy earth, coming in not just from erosion on the sides, but also by the wind.  As it blows over the highway, a slightly darker canvas than the earth itself, I can see where the wind turns in spirals.  Mini cyclones, small dances. 
I am standing next to a bus stop.  A narrow structure made of clear plastic.  A curved roof, three walls designed to protect against rain and wind.  Its brightness has worn from the sun, a force shining down without clouds to buffer its bright light.  Pure brutal heat. 
Behind the bus stop are four dozen flower pots of various sizes.  There are some short stacks, but most of them sit on the ground.  They are empty vessels, worn and awaiting soil and water.  Some are deep and made of terracotta, others are so shallow, if it were not for the small drainage hole at the bottom they could be mistaken for salad bowls.  There are tiny pots made of blue and white porcelain, the shallow ones are glass, looking like cheap crystal candy dishes.
I am moving them one by one, taking them from the area several feet behind the bus stop and moving them closer to the road.  I am stacking them one on top of the other, creating three piles. 
The wind continues to blow, swooshing in my ears, sounding like a roaring ocean.
I am alone here.  Moving my pots into piles, waiting for a car to pass.

Market

The air is hot and dry and hurts the skin with each step. I’m covered in a long black robe, my head covered from the sun by a white scarf that billows behind me in the breeze. Bursts of hot wind blow dust into the air, creating dirt devils that swirl and twist violently until they run their course, dying without a trace.

The sky above is clear blue, not a single cloud lingers. The landscape is totally flat, no mountains, no trees, just pale sand that has turned hard enough to walk on without strain.

I walk between rows of tents, on a surface of bleached sand only few degrees shy of white. The road is well traveled, covered in sand ground to fine dust and millions of footprints from those who’ve walked before.

On either side of the four foot wide street are tents made of burlap and dark canvas. The fabric is sun bleached and worn, covered in dust and pale dirt. The structures are square and feel permanent, though they lack formal foundation and could be taken apart in minutes. The roof of each tent is flat and sinks inward, creating an inverted dome in the space within. Canvas walls are tied to metal poles creating the 3 dimensional square. The doors are long rectangular pieces of fabric that can be pulled to one side, creating a triangular entranceway.

On the long street of tents, nearly a third of the tents have their soft doorways pulled to the side. Within those open doorways, close to the street, I see tables of fruit and metal wares. There are woolen carpets and tea in jars and baskets full of buttons and cloth. I can see just the things closest to the door, beyond that are just shadows, darkness that begs the eyes to look. Most of the canvas doors are down and tied, leaving their treasures and secrets hidden from the bright sun. The street of merchants is long, stretching into the horizon and then out of sight. One after the other, they stand without a gap between their walls.

The street is deserted, and I can hear the soft padded sound of my footsteps and those of my companion, also covered in flowing dark fabric.

The smell of thick, pungent coffee and burnt sugar wafts on the breeze every now and then, sometimes mingling with the smell of cigarette smoke. Every so often I hear the thick rumbling laughter of an old man.

Southwest

The late afternoon sunlight is a deep yellow quickly turning into pale orange, like an egg yolk spilling across the sky. The landscape is a wide series of low hillsides that cover the land like soft round breasts in all directions. The earth is covered in dry soil that dances when touched, sending its dust up to speak. There are scattered patches of green grass in various stages of death, yellow and green mingling, and tall cactuses that reach with thorny arms to the missing clouds in the sky. Tumbleweeds roll across the hills every few minutes, each riding and rolling through another warm gust of wind that blows with abandon. Every animal that might live here is hidden. Rodents and insects keep to their burrows, birds remain in their nests, nothing moves on these hills but the grass.
The only sound breaking the silence of the land is the occasional light whistling of the wind and the rhythmic clomping of horse hooves. A pack of five brown horses trots in a tight cluster. Atop each is a cowgirl in a wide brimmed straw hat, golden skin and eyes that survey the horizon. Their hair is wild and curly and swarms like Medusa’s snakes in the wind. Their chests are covered in light cotton shirts with plaid patterns and their legs are protected by old blue jeans and leather chaps. Though they are young, all of them only a few years over thirty, the skin of their hands reveals the battle between elements, between wind and stone, and the lines around their eyes tell of their old tales. The women ride close together, just a few inches apart in a tight pack, horse ribs and cowgirl knees occasionally touching.
Just a few feet behind the women is another tight pack of horses moving at a gentle trot, but this is a group of four men and one young woman. Each is dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts and the men wear baseball hats. The man slightly in front of the pack holds a video camera to his right eye, he is quietly watching the women through his lens. On either side of him are the boom mic operators, each attempting to hold their long microphones a few feet above the cowgirls. Behind the camera man is the sound operator and beside him, the young female assistant who stares intently into a small screen, watching for any equipment that might enter the shot. They all trot slowly, moving through the glow of the afternoon, each with their particular role.

Dune Labyrinth

On a bed of short, drying grass, there are three large boulders in a tight cluster, spaced only a couple feet apart. They are all approximately 5 feet tall and round. Each is made of solid, rough stone, the color of deep, warm earth and an undertone of red, like the rich red sand of the Nevada desert. They are almost the same size in mass, but each is unique in shape and details. One is more oblong than squat. It sits like a reddening egg with a pointed peak, fully erect and noble. Another boulder is thicker that the other two, its shape is slightly more condensed and round. Its top is a soft dome, lacking a point. it also sits fully upright, although not as tall as the other. The third is a combination of the other two, it is a little taller than the fatter stone and a little more squat than the egg shaped stone. This stone does not sit fully upright, rather it rests at a slight angle on its side, as though it was reclining against some invisible easy chair.
Their contours are rough and chiseled by the elements. In each, there are pockets and grooves, lines on their hard surfaces. The three boulders are part of the heart of an ancient circular labyrinth which spirals from the center, out, the ends of which cannot be seen. Entrance and exit are a mystery, a myth, known, yet not seen. Surrounding the stones is a small expanse of open space, there are no trees or flowers, just an earth the color of mixed copper and sand and drying grass below the stones.
Twenty feet away from the stones are the innermost walls of the labyrinth. They are at least thirty feet tall and shaped like a continuous line of sand dunes. The dunes are wide and gentle and slope up to their peak at a 45 degree angle. They are made of reddish tan sand and begin on either side of the path and build into tall peaks that are warm beneath the exposed sun. Billows of red sand blow up when the wind passes over the peaks, after drifting with the wind for a while, they scatter and settle back into the great mass of sandy walls. The paths between the dunes is somewhat narrow, three or four feet at the most. The small pass is made of more compact and hard earth, it is solid and a very light tan. There is not a mark of footprints, it is clean despite the mountains of sand that surround it on either side. The sky above is blue, yet there seems to be a golden filter that colors everything in a yellow haze.

Western Saloon

There is a modern drinking saloon, somewhere in the middle of the southwestern North American desert. Outside the premises is a barren wasteland, there are no houses, schools or people. The only sign of human society in this environment is the deserted saloon. Inside, there are signs of years of use. The wooden floors, made of a light blond wood are well worn from boot heels and dropped beer bottles. The walls still reverberate with sounds, yet a silence has begun to creep in, as if all the dwellers of this space left very quickly.
There are two rooms, although they are only separated by two protruding 2 foot walls, extending from both the southern and northern walls. The small dividers merely give the slight illusion of separate rooms. The smaller space that one walks into from the desert is the bar room. The southern and western walls, nearly thirty feet tall are made only of glass. The heat of the day pours in. The small rectangular room is empty, save for a wooden bar and the five matching wooden stools topped with red leather seat cushions that line it. Behind the bar is a wooden stairway and carved banister. They lead to a small loft space, where the barkeeper would sleep when the last of the unruly customers would saunter home at 4 in the morning.
To the right of the bar room is the gathering room. The room is arranged with clusters of four or five high- backed wooden chairs clustered around a knee high wooden table. There are dozens of seating arrangements in the large window-less room. The only light comes from the windows in the bar room, and the light in the gathering room is cool and diffused, creating a darker stillness within the space. Along the northern wall is a row of dark brown leather booths. Decorating the northern wall, from the top of the thirty ft wall down to the booths are a series of mirrors.
There are seven rows, each row consisting of seven equally sized rectangular mirrors. The mirrors have a dark wood border/frame. Each mirror is 3 and a half feet tall and 2 and a half feet wide. In the center of each mirror is a large image of different men on horseback. This is a commemorative series depicting the men who led and won the battles for the west. The men all glare directly into the eyes of the observer, delivering such an intensity that it appears as if the horse and rider could burst into the room at any moment, bringing the smell of leather, dust, and horse sweat with them. They are all dressed in the style of the times, except the rogue two who wear leather cowboy jackets. Despite these the two wild ones, they all have large moustaches, dark military uniforms, and the posture of one who believes absolutely in manifest destiny.
In some subtle way, the mirrors are also advertising cheap American beer, although there is no overt name or signage. The advertising and message seem to ooze from the mirrors, psychically communicating their campaign without any need for direct linguistic transmission.

Out of the 36 mirrors, there is one…on the last row from the top and the last one on the right. He is an Indian man. He rides a chocolate brown horse and he is also wearing a cowboy jacket although he is practically naked besides this and his loin cloth. His hair is black and long, blowing wildly in the breeze. He stares solemnly out, knowing what is to come. He is only 39, but looks battle worn and hard, his cool black eyes defeat any attempt at subversion. This is the warrior who led his people to battle, defeating the invading white army only once before annihilation.