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Submitted to Contest #341
It was meant to be all so simple. A bus would take us up into the mountains. We would be dropped off at the trailhead, and then we’d start walking. At least that was the plan. “What time’s the bus due?” Carol asked. “Seven am,” I replied. “But they are never on time.” “Yeah, I know,” she muttered. “Just asking.” A smouldering cigarette stuck to her bottom lip, her dusty dirty-blonde hair advertising that it had been days since either of us had danced under a shower. Her jeans were more dusty than her hair. The singlet top had been blue, but ...
Submitted to Contest #340
He had dug deep. At least that was what he had told himself. The needle had dropped onto the grooved surface of the record, and the ghost of the voice could be heard. At this point in his life, the voices were increasingly hard to hear as anything but ghosts. Most were gone; he could name-check the singers, the bands, the solo artists, the duos. When he was young, they were present. Of course, there had been those who had sung and flown like modern Greek gods, and had been appropriately reduced to ashes. Too garish, too explosive, and someti...
Submitted to Contest #339
He remembered her mostly in the mornings. Sometimes it was a bar of sunlight that cut through the morning dust and hit his face as he stirred to wake, an uncreased pillow beside him. Sometimes it was the shrunken bar of her soap that still held its space in the shower rack. He stared at it as the water washed away the night. Sometimes it was the ping of toast popping and falling on the bench; he rarely ate toast anymore. Her perfume still hung in the air of the apartment; it was in the towels, the cushions that she had rested her head on. He...
Submitted to Contest #338
Some cities are book cities. Now, for instance, New York is most definitely a book city; San Francisco used to be, but sadly, not so much these days. London is obviously high on the list, at least that’s what Londoners would tell you, but one city stands alone, elegantly high above all others. Paris has been a book city since before the arrival of the printing press, and in this digital-dominated world, it’s still awash with books. It’s just another reason for Alice to love it. She could not think of another city where a bookshop draws touri...
Submitted to Contest #337
I had been anticipating this journey for a long time, crossing the world for a single purpose: Angkor Wat. We all have our passions and the things that motivate us; mine is lost worlds. I’ve hiked to Machu Picchu, scrambled over ruined cities in Sri Lanka, stood with half the world in the Acropolis, and tried to decipher the carvings of Borobudur. And here I was, in the relaxed but dusty town of Siem Reap, with Angkor Wat looming large. It doesn’t physically dominate the town — it’s too subtle for that — but it is the reason Siem Reap exists...
Submitted to Contest #336
It started with a glass of wine — actually two glasses of wine. How many times in life has something begun with glasses of wine, or ended with two people, a quiet café, a small round table and wine, usually red. One way or another, I had been here before, but this time was different. We all travel for different reasons. For some, it’s a bucket list; for others, a passion for a particular culture, or a vague childhood memory just waiting to be fulfilled. But for some of us, it’s simply what we do — every year, somewhere different. Paris is a ...
Submitted to Contest #335
Apartment buildings are shadow lands. To the uninitiated, they are just little houses stacked on top of each other, but to those of us who dwell within, each one is a tiny town. Doors slam, people arrive and depart unseen, conversations are almost heard. Here in Paris, we like to think of them as little villages. Each one has a village gossip, a self-appointed mayor, a jack-of-all-trades who’ll fix a dripping tap and a door that won’t lock. Of course, most little communities have a few odd-bods and loners who keep to themselves, who don’t kn...
Submitted to Contest #334
Once upon a time, there was a city of myth, a city of legends and, most importantly, a city of dreams. To many, especially those with a touch of the romantic, it was the City of Light. It was a city of stone, of brick and of wrought iron. These were things you could see, touch and, on a rainy day, smell. But there was more to this city than the physical sum of its parts; like so many things, you had to know where to look. And that’s where I come in, for I am a guide — some would say a special kind of guide.I am what could be called an expert...
Submitted to Contest #333
A warm glow filled Jason as he paid his portion of the dinner bill. There was no need for him to calculate a tip; he was in a generous mood and handed Gabriel a thirty-euro note.“Pass on my compliments to the chef,” he said to the head waiter. “And keep a little for yourself; you managed a table of talkative tourists beautifully.”Jason wondered, briefly, if the warmth in Gabriel’s voice meant something more. The thought passed almost as quickly as it arrived — a small fiction encouraged by Paris, where even kindness could feel like invitatio...
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