You're packing a suitecase.

Don't like that one so I'm going with the next one: The smell of air in winter.

I never got tired of seeing It from the beach. Being a city dweller I would usually just get views of the beach and inland or on the back of It I would spend hours staring out to sea from Carparque.

My father used to say "You can only truly know a place if you've spent significant time away."

Not that I didn't love the city. Its where I grew up. Its where my family was its where my friends are. But I always agreed with him and would always try and find an excuse to leave the city, if only for that one view from the foot hills about a mile from shore.

That's where I was when the first snow flake of the season started to fall. The clouds were puffy but not all encompassing like they would be later in winter. I could still see Hope blotting out one quarter of the sky, its rust and mustard colored bands easily discernible. Chance, was low in the sky, almost behind the city but still visible. The city casting long shadows that almost reached to where I stood.

It had been cold for weeks and the sea had begun to freeze around the base of the city, but the carpet of redgrass had just now started turning light blue from the fall. The grass's dusky odor was a sure sign of the winter storms to come. The wind gusted off the sea, across the beach and the red grass and brought that cold bitter copper smell I grew up with. In the summer time the sea smelled sweet as the algae blooms turned the water yellow with flowers, but in the winter time they would die back and the sea would be a sullen gray, small waves breaking on shore.

And then there was the city. Even from here I could see lights and vehicles moving in and around it. It was hard to imagine something that big ever used to be alive.

My mother had been told by her mother that Earth had creatures similar to the city but much much smaller. She had called them crabs as well, but apparently on earth they only grew to be about as big as your hand. I always thought that would be something to see. A crab as small as your hand. The city was fully fifteen miles wide and stretched into the sea for four. Some scientists thought that this behemoth gave up the ghost as it pulled itself out of the water some 1,000 years before we even stepped off the first colony ships. While the crabs get big around here no one's seen one this big. Seems like the bigger the crabs get the more they like to stick to the depths. I wonder if our city crab had similar feelings I do. Head out of the depths to truly appreciate them.

Heading to Earth would be a heck of an adventure too, but I'd have to take Fora and the kids with me. There and back was a lone wolf's sport unless you had the money to ship your entire family. Even with cold storage we would age ten years and about fifty would pass here before we got back.

If I squinted I could make out my extremity. My family lived halfway up Leg12, further towards the sea than land, on the left side from where I was standing. I gave a wave in case my family was looking and then felt foolish, there's no way they could see me.

Some day maybe we could afford top Carapace or maybe even Subclaw, but that would take a lot of luck and planning. And then that's only if we wanted to move within the city and not to a farm here on shore. There were certainly pros and cons to both.

If we moved out of the city I would definitely miss walking down the boulevards of Body, or just getting lost for the day with Fora and the kids driving Capilicars.

But then there was right now, the view of the city, the crisp fresh, non-recycled air. And snow. Soon the entire continent would be covered in fresh snow and that was something to see.

Those kinds of decisions would have to wait, however. Fora was expecting our 3rd child and I was just accepted into the diplomatic corps. For now it was time to see what else was out there and to try and re-establish ties to one of the other colonies that had gone quiet a couple years ago.

I turned my back on the city and caught back up with the rest of the party that had just gone around the bend. It was going to be a while before I looked on home again.

Write About Being Deserted

The playground was a jumble of screaming kids, flying tether balls, and the rhythmic slap of jump ropes.  Pigtails flew and screams of delight echoed off the play-shed.  It was am recess for the third grade.  A whole 15 minutes to run and scream and tackle and play.  Looking over the blacktop, my eye skipped over the bursts of activity. With so many bodies whirling in motions, my eye didn't stop until it came upon a still figure in the corner of the shed.  She stood with her back to the wall, slowly tossing a ball from one hand to the other.  In the midst of that laughing and whirling and screaming, she stood out in stark relief.  Wide brown eyes watched the groups that sped past her.  I saw her  lean toward one laughing pile of girls that paused beside her.  She took a hesitant step toward them before they fled to the monkey bars, leaving her deserted,  left to watch their flight like a flock of startled birds.  She began tossing her ball again.  Slowly,.  Carefully.  Her eyes began scanning the playground again and from the recess of my brain I found myself remembering the intimidation of a group.  How hard it was to approach, and ask, and try.   Determined, I walked across the court to her and smiled.  She met my eyes and slowly smiled back.

"Want to play hand ball?" I asked.

":Sure," she beamed at me and ran to the ball bin for the rubber red ball.  She was back in a flash.  We had barely started playing when our deserted corner began to fill.  Teachers rarely played with the kids during recess.  It was our 15 minute solace as well.  Only for us, it was a time without questions and bickering and fidgeting.  When a teacher did wander into the fray, the results were immediate.  Soon we were swamped with kids who wanted in.  I let her lead the effort to form teams and rules.  Slowly, I slid to the back of the group, morphing from player to ref, to cheer leader.  I was as surprised as the kids when the whistle blew announcing free time was over.  The kids scurried to return the balls and and jump ropes.  I turned to collect my group of students when I felt a pair of arms wrap around my waist.

"Thanks Mrs. Miller," she said, her brown hair hiding her face but  I could feel her smile.  "That was the best recess ever!"  I hugged her back and watched her run, happily to her line.  She was engulfed with a crowd of giggling, wiggling bodies.  No longer an eye sore, she melded right in with just as many giggles and wiggles as the rest.  A very good recess indeed.

Write About Small Madnesses

It was the socks that did me in.  The week had been long and grueling.  My boss was on a rampage, and I had put in far too many hours trying to appease her.  Dinner had been takeout for the last three nights in a row and the dirty glasses and silverware still littered the kitchen, a silent reminder of yet another chore left neglected.  But for whatever reason, it was the socks that finally broke me.

I opened the door and dragged myself into the house around seven that night.  The dog started barking wildly and the cats immediately demanded that their bowls be filled.  I tried to wave them off but they quickly turned on each other as cats and dogs often do.  With a sigh, I pushed myself off the sofa and headed toward the laundry room to feed the animals.  The first pair of dirty socks were right there, next to me on the cushion.  Brown and crusty, they stank of shoes and foot.  I balled them in my fist to take with me, the animals dancing at my feet.  The second pair lay right on the thresh hold of the kitchen, as if welcoming me to the disaster that lay inside.  One was turned inside out and the other sported a large hole at the toe.  Amid the barks and mournful meows, I bent down and added this second pair to my hoard.  Down the stairs to the the laundry room, I encountered the third pair of the night.  Just as disgusting, lying neglected on the concert floor.  Too tired to bend over, I kicked them before me into the laundry room where they landed next to the mounds of unwashed clothing.

I poured cat food, scooped dog kibble and took a deep breath in the silence that followed.  The aroma of unwashed socked slinked up my nose but I enjoyed the silence nonetheless.  Revived, I headed back upstairs into the kitchen to tackled dinner.  One look at the mess and I knew it was too much.  I resigned myself to McDonalds again and turned to the bedroom.  With a groan, I kicked off my shoes and feel face first onto my bed.  And onto another pair of dirty socks.  I snapped.  The dog, the cats, the crazy work, a house left to ruin and now, more socks mocking my failure.  I suppose I went a little mad.  But who can blame me?  A haze of red rose before my eyes just as my ears picked up the sound of my husband coming through the front door.  I stormed out of the bed room and pushed my way through the twining cats and barking dog to face him, the offending socks thrust before his face.  He looked at them with surprise.

"If I find one more pair of your disgusting socks lying around this house, I will leave!" I bit out the words, loading them with all the venom and anger and frustration of the week.

We stood face to face for a moment, the socks between us, and then he gathered me in his arms, pressed his cheek to mine, and murmured into my ear, "So, you want McDonalds or Arby's for dinner tonight?"

You can have faith in _____

"You can have faith in me Ms. Newton. I am not the black wolf of the family my father was." Hendrick said.

Claire still stared at him dubiously.

"Black wolf?" She asked. "You mean black sheep or lone wolf?" His English was quite better than her Dutch but his mixed metaphores were beginning to get tiresome. She wasn't sure if his mistakes were intentional, trying to be cloyingly cute, or simply turns of phrase lost in translation.

"Either? Prost!" he asked with an easy grin. He raised his drink in a mock toast.

They had been sitting in the hotel's bar for almost 45 minutes. Claire kept testing him to see how much he may or may not have know about his father's murder.

She peered down at her meager notes.

"So you haven't seen your father in several years, but you spoke regularly. He seemed like a nice enough man when I met him. Why would someone want to murder him?"

"Someones." Hendrick corrected.

"Murderers plural? And your thinking on that is because?"

"Three car bombs go off across town from each other within seconds. That implies a group. I'm also positiving that you will see the explosives were at least a military grade derivative of C4 which you cannot manufacture in a sublet under a chain bulb."

"Sublet?"

"Sublet, under house." He pantomimed walking down stairs and turning on a light by pulling a chain."

"Basement." Claire sighed, dropped her pen on the table and took another sip of her cranberry juice. There had been no mention of types of explosives in any of the reports she had read, the going theory was some sort of IED. She continued:

"Why do you think it was military grade and not just some nut job with an axe to grind?"

"My father's careers were both varied and multiple. While he made some charming friends like you he made far more enemies."

"So which was he? A black sheep or a lone wolf?" Maybe a different tact would open up a lead.

"Difference? Maybe both. My grand ma ma was disappointed with some of his life choices."

"Really? Such as?" Claire was hoping something would drop into her lap.

Hendrick became distant.

"She never forgave him for marrying gypsy for starters. Was beneath his station."

"Ah, and was this wife number 1, 2 or 3?" she asked ticking through the profile notes.

"My mother... Number one. Grand ma ma says he only did it to get a rise out of the cousins, or my Grand Ma ma's sister." He looked very seriously into his drink.

"So why did you seek me out?"

He looked up at her eyes focusing directly on her:

"Justice. I will not get it from Inspector Hasbrouck"

"And why is that?"

"They were lovers and she is still too close to him to oversee this case properly."

"Why is she even on this case then?"

"She pulled some heartstrings to get it assigned to her."

Write About Unsubstantiated Rumors

They said there were ghosts.  Depending on who you spoke to the details varied but the at the heart the story was the same.  The house on the corner of Pine and Oregon was haunted.  Like most rumors, the details were fuzzy.  A friend of a friend had once spent the night and emerged with a head of white hair unable to speak.  Someone's cousin swore that lights flickered at midnight on a full moon from the upstairs window even though there was no one living in the house.  Great uncles spun yarns before gullible eyes of phantom mists and unnatural accidents.  Although the stories were plenty, they were all second hand.  No one could say they had personally experienced anything out of the ordinary until the summer of my fourteenth birthday when Phyllis disappeared.  No one believes me but I swear to you on a stack of Bibles that the house took her.  I swear its true.  Because I saw it.