Pollen Count Brooklyn Novels & Stories

New York. Brooklyn. Thursday. 12:34 AM. ​The air in Brooklyn always felt different than the air in Manhattan. It was heavier, more grounded, smelling of wet asphalt and woodsmoke rather than the sterile, metallic scent of high-rise power. Scarlett sat in the passenger seat of the black sedan, her fingers digging into the leather upholstery as Xavier navigated the quiet streets of Boerum Hill.

I carved her name onto each shell with a nail and sheer defiance. The city is quiet. Too quiet. No seagulls. No blaring horns. No Dominican women disputing over plátanos at the corner. Merely the deep stealthy drone that permeates everything these days the pitch as a subway train resting in a tunnel absent, from all maps. I rise to a sitting position. The cityscape transformed suddenly. All structures, in Brooklyn (each and every one) sport a light shining from their peaks. Not neon. Not an alarm. Simply red. Throbbing. In synchrony. As if the borough sprouted a halo of lights while we were unaware.

I took the train there. We are going down to Brooklyn to visit the Botanic Garden there. This 52-acre urban oasis in Prospect Park offers guests the chance to experience nature right in the heart of Brooklyn. The Japanese Hill and Pond Garden, the Cranford Rose Garden and the Steinhardt Conservatory are great to explore. After wandering around alone, I returned to the place my sister and I were renting. I was surprised because my maids and Yuan were there. "Ma'am? Just go to her room. He might be sleeping. Wake him up." the maid said to me. I nodded and went to my room with Yuan. He's sleeping so I sit next to him. He woke up so he hugged me and kissed me.

She felt him breathe. "That's enough," he said quietly. "I thought so," she said. Saturday, the market was full. Not the winter market — the spring one, which was different in the way Brooklyn in spring was different from Brooklyn in every other season. More people, more color, the neighborhood has decided to be outside after months of enduring inside. George's honey table had twice the inventory. The succulent woman had new varieties that Mara didn't recognize. Someone had set up a flower stand that hadn't been there in winter, bright and slightly chaotic, tulips and ranunculus and something purple she didn't know the name of.

I was breathing, and it was enough. The silence of the dead phone in my bag became a strange sort of companion as I wandered deeper into Brooklyn's winding arteries. The residential calm of Heights gave way to the boisterous, sprawling life of Cobble Hill. The city here was not a skyline to be admired from a bridge but a collection of vibrant, humming details: the scent of garlic and sizzling onions from an Italian restaurant, the thump of a bassline from a basement bar, the rainbow glow of neon signs reflecting off wet asphalt.

“Is this gonna be another Bermuda thing?” “No, unfortunately, I don’t own a private jet,” Audrey rolled her eyes. “It’s not Bermuda, but it’s just as great, I promise,” she said cryptically. After about twenty minutes of driving, the car then pulled to a stop. Apparently, Audrey was taking him out to Brooklyn. They got out in front of this huge park with a sign that read Brooklyn Botanical Garden. “Let’s go,” Audrey said as she took Killian’s hand. She stopped by a street vendor to get some bagels and coffee before they continued walking into the park. It was late February and the air was still chilly, but Killian didn’t mind it. He wasn’t wearing his gloves as holding Audrey’s hand was warm

I suggested, turning back to frown at her and catching her ogling me again. She coughed a bit and placed a hand over her eyes to shade them from the sun as she looked around for her driver. "Were you aware that about fifteen percent of the air you breathe in on the subway is actually skin particles? And not just from exposed skin. From the whole body." "How in the world do you know that?" "I like to read," she answered. "It was in a study of the metro back in 2008." She didn't seem like the type of person to read. But it kind of explained how she knew such random facts. "Isn't there human matter in all air? Especially in New York City?"

The afternoon in Brooklyn was deceptively domestic. The air smelled of rain-dampened earth and the charcoal from a neighbor's grill. In the small, fenced-in backyard of the brownstone, Ethan stood near the ancient maple tree, watching Leo attempt to "audit" a row of wilting marigolds with a plastic shovel.

There was a pep in her step as she stepped down off the three little stairs outside her apartment door. Of course it was a clear sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. Birds chirped in trees and the early morning breeze teased the leaves as she walked by. Already, she could feel the impending heat of the coming day as she swung her bag over her shoulder and wished for invisibility. She was already losing the little spark she'd first felt.

We to you," I correct, looking at our son in the rearview mirror, he doesn't know I'm talking about him. But he feels me looking at him and turns to connect with me. I'm talking to your father. Aren't you going to tell him something? I hold out the phone to him and he greets it. ... Next to the Brooklyn Bridge, Brooklyn Bridge Park extends along the East River with its 34 hectares. The park located there is divided into eleven sections, which are as follows: Pier 1 to 6, Fulton Ferry Landing, Brooklyn Plaza, Empire Fulton Ferry and Main John Street, Brooklyn Bridge Promenade is also part of the promenade. It is not a new park, this park has not existed since 1642 and was completely renovated