727. We're landing at an airstrip in the Gobi Desert. It's a Customs inspection. The pilot leans out the cockpit window, waiving away vendors with carts and animals crowded on the dirt landing strip. He taxis past the Customs booth, salutes, and is waived on by a bored-looking official in a blue uniform. Without ever coming to a full stop, we're airborne again in moments.
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© 2002-2012 Mark Phillips.
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This writing is fiction. Please don't confuse it with reality.