The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan

"You should not breathe until we leave this building," Aaron joked, quietly and half-seriously.

"That," I said, "is what I wish I could do."

We climbed a narrow flight of stairs with thin metal rails. The air became hot. At the top was a gangplank. A furnace cast its flickering light upon our path along the steel walkway. It occurred to me that I should protect my eyes; I put on my sunglasses and turned my face away from the fire and scurried across that band of light. I was holding both of Amy's hands as we went.

The first sight of the steel mill, from a safe distance on the bus, was a bunch of smokestacks and an immense, sharply contoured cloud of rust-coloured smoke. A man came on board to pass out hard hats; we placed them awkwardly onto our heads as the bus drove into the factory grounds.

The wall around the outer perimeter was painted a clean white, with pictures-- political slogans, said Amy, about modernisation. There were thin trees, and carefully groomed yards with flowers and painted fences. Further in there were tracks for rail cars that carried steel, and piles of waste as high as hills. A heavy, unnatural smell entered the bus through the windows and the ventilation. Within the outer perimeter, the grounds were desolate. There was no greenery, only steel and cement.

There were people, in bunches and alone. There were workers in hard hats and soot-darkened clothes, women in uniforms and flower-print dresses, barefoot children playing and dashing about. The bus stopped before a large building and we were led in, with two of the male students from the teachers' college bearing the blue Lingua-Cultural Exchange flag that had occupied the administrators' executive meeting room for the past three weeks.

A few steps into this immense building, with disposable camera in hand, I yearned to run back to the safety of the bus, but was too terrified to do anything but follow. Far ahead in the dimness and far up, the sharp orange smoke I had seen from aboard the bus was spilling out inside the building, over our heads, bunching against the ceiling high above into a dense thick cloud before escaping into the sky. I wanted to take a picture of it, but I was afraid of being left behind and having to run to catch up. Somehow I knew this was a place where I should not run. I wanted to hold my breath, but realized I couldn't and settled for breathing calmly so that I would inhale less. The smell -- the horrible rust-coloured smoke spewing within the building -- was only warm and wet, like a bathroom after a shower. It was not acrid or pungent.

"You should not breathe until we leave this building," Aaron joked, quietly and half-seriously.

"That," I said, "is what I wish I could do."

We climbed a narrow flight of stairs with thin metal rails. The air became hot. At the top was a gangplank. A furnace cast its flickering light upon our path along the steel walkway. It occurred to me that I should protect my eyes; I put on my sunglasses and turned my face away from the fire and scurried across that band of light. I was holding both of Amy's hands as we went.

The first sight of the steel mill, from a safe distance on the bus, was a bunch of smokestacks and an immense, sharply contoured cloud of rust-coloured smoke. A man came on board to pass out hard hats; we placed them awkwardly onto our heads as the bus drove into the factory grounds.

The wall around the outer perimeter was painted a clean white, with pictures-- political slogans, said Amy, about modernisation. There were thin trees, and carefully groomed yards with flowers and painted fences. Further in there were tracks for rail cars that carried steel, and piles of waste as high as hills. A heavy, unnatural smell entered the bus through the windows and the ventilation. Within the outer perimeter, the grounds were desolate. There was no greenery, only steel and cement.

There were people, in bunches and alone. There were workers in hard hats and soot-darkened clothes, women in uniforms and flower-print dresses, barefoot children playing and dashing about. The bus stopped before a large building and we were led in, with two of the male students from the teachers' college bearing the blue Lingua-Cultural Exchange flag that had occupied the administrators' executive meeting room for the past three weeks.

A few steps into this immense building, with disposable camera in hand, I yearned to run back to the safety of the bus, but was too terrified to do anything but follow. Far ahead in the dimness and far up, the sharp orange smoke I had seen from aboard the bus was spilling out inside the building, over our heads, bunching against the ceiling high above into a dense thick cloud before escaping into the sky. I wanted to take a picture of it, but I was afraid of being left behind and having to run to catch up. Somehow I knew this was a place where I should not run. I wanted to hold my breath, but realized I couldn't and settled for breathing calmly so that I would inhale less. The smell -- the horrible rust-coloured smoke spewing within the building -- was only warm and wet, like a bathroom after a shower. It was not acrid or pungent.

"You should not breathe until we leave this building," Aaron joked, quietly and half-seriously.

"That," I said, "is what I wish I could do."

We climbed a narrow flight of stairs with thin metal rails. The air became hot. At the top was a gangplank. A furnace cast its flickering light upon our path along the steel walkway. It occurred to me that I should protect my eyes; I put on my sunglasses and turned my face away from the fire and scurried across that band of light. I was holding both of Amy's hands as we went.

wheel of time

by Robert Jordan

Wheel of Time: the Books

this is the second WoT thread title

this is the first WoT thread title

this is the second WoT thread title

this is the first WoT thread title

this is the second WoT thread title