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.

The Brooklyn summer had matured into a deep, heavy gold. The backyard of the brownstone, once a patch of neglected dirt and weeds, had been transformed. It wasn't the manicured, sterile perfection of a penthouse terrace; it was a "Monroe production"—a wild, fragrant riot of climbing roses, lavender, and the ancient maple tree that stood like a silent sentinel over their new life. The Preparation of the Ghost

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.

With that, he marched off to his room. Chloe let out a bitter chuckle, keeping her thoughts to herself. The next morning, Chloe rose early to start on breakfast. Chloe had barely stepped out when she was hit by the sight of the living room, now a makeshift garden with vases of flowers everywhere, their scent hanging in the air like a silent alarm. The pollen was a yellow haze, swirling in with the breeze, everywhere at once. Her face drained of color as her breath hitched, faster and faster. She was asthmatic, and pollen was her kryptonite!