She stood on a flat and spacious plain. Remnants of brush and other dead looking flora interrupted the smooth and glistening ground here and there. She knew this was the rolling desert she had learned about when Maiden Hassium had pushed her to stop lingering on the pictures in her month of geography. She could see nothing moving as far as her sight covered of the plain. As for “rolling” she didn’t understand why it was named this way. The area reminded her of a bowl. Except for the opening far in the distance where the coach was pointed, they appeared to be surrounded by ridges of rock and metal on all sides. The solar rays were brighter where they reflected off some of the peaks.
“You ever been outta’ Shackleton?” Patel asked from behind her.
“No, Bishop,” she replied, without a second thought to her learned propriety.
He didn’t correct her, wanting to stay on the subject. “This part o’ the desert is called, ‘Baker’s Dozen,’ ‘cause there’s thirteen peaks around the edges of the bowl.” He watched her count and then reached into his pocket.
Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). WARNING: editing has not taken place.