It was the darkest, coldest night of the year, she felt, as she stole her way out of the side door and into the blackness outside six months ago. The world was alive, still. Cars and lights and surges of people milling around malls and shopping centres like the sun was not going to rise in 3 hours.

It was the meanest, cruellest thing, she said as she ate two scoops of chocolate ice cream.

It was the harshest storm, she whispered, as she put the coats away in the cupboard.

The floors were polished to a shine. Gleaming in the dark. When the sun rose she could see her reflection in them. Her face distorted, blurry, somebody else.

The windows were dusty, so she got her cloth and slapped at them until the sand fell in little heaps on the windowsill. Then she dampened her cloth and smeared the windows so they became muddy. She could no longer peer out of them at the sand storm outside.

‘Perhaps it is for the better, perhaps seeing the storm is worse.’

There was food they had left on the table. Bits of rice by empty plates. Clumped with leftover sauce, some yogurt smeared on the side of the plate. Glasses covered in greasy fingerprints. The dim light that fills the room after a day of torrid heat, after the sun is covered by sand dunes, yellow world, dust up nostrils, clogging all the openings into the house. And when you step outside you have to cover your face. Wrap a scarf around your head, over your nose, only your eyes visible. Like a face veil.

And silence.

I don’t think you realise this, but sandstorms are silent.

After the initial gust of wind and wailing currents, there is only silence.

And a fog of dust.

Don’t stay out too long, you shall wheeze.

It was the coldest, harshest winter.

But the summers are long and arduous. And mountains of dust engulf the city every other week.


5 thoughts on “Sandstorm

    • I find that interesting Diana. I grew up in the desert. Every summer we would go back home to the UK to see our families and enjoy life and then when the 2-3 months were up it was back to the sandstormy Arabian peninsula. I always said I was a rain and moss and humidity lover too. I still am. But there is something insanely nostalgic about heat radiating off tarmac and hot sandy air blowing in your face and through your hair as you swiftly race down an empty highway in the literal desert. I feel like now as an adult I want to explore this more. There is romance in foliage, isn’t there. But what is there to find between sand dunes and dead rocky mountains? Thank you for stopping by to read!

      Liked by 1 person

      • What a great comment, Lenora. I’ve never been in a deserty desert with dunes, but the photos are beautiful and like blowing snow, I imagine they’re never stagnant. I’m going to a place called White Sands this summer, and hopefully to Morrocco at some point. I want to experience it. “…hot sandy air blowing in your face and through your hair” made me laugh. Love your descriptions.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Never stagnant, you’re right. But unlike snow, they are chaotic where snow is peaceful. Malicious where snow means no harm. White Sands sounds gorgeous! And Morocco is wonderful, ‘warts and all’ haha but I have to say this as my father is Moroccan 😀 You will for sure experience this if you go to the desert! I am glad it made you laugh, and glad you took the time to stop by 🙂 Thank you!

        Liked by 1 person

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