Category: Uncategorized (Page 36 of 44)

As he looked out over the bay, the lights dancing along the cables of the Bay Bridge he could not help but think of her.

It had been five years, but he could still remember it like it was yesterday, the spray, the fun… It had seemed like such a good idea to go out on Cory’s yacht that day, and Cara had loved every moment of it, well at least until she had fallen off the boat. It was crazy to have stayed out in the Bay after dark, but everyone wanted to see the Port Authority and the TransAmerica building lit up, and no one gave a lot of thought to the number of beers and magheritas that everyone had thrown back.

It was at least fifteen minutes between Cara slipping and falling, somewhere up near the bow, before someone noticed that she was missing. He had gone out of his mind, screamed her name, almost jumped into the water himself, and he would have done if Cory had not held him back.

They stopped looking for her after four days. He could not bear to think of her alone in the dark, cold and frightened.

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You can see the original post on Ficlets.com by clicking here.

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This Ficlet was inspired by the following image:

Photo by DIKESH.com (on Flickr)

The waves were lapping against his feet when he came to his senses. As he opened his eyes he saw the mist and the gentle swell, and he knew that he was on the beach. The problem was not having the slightest idea how he had come to be there.

He looked around, hoping amongst other things to see a pile of clothes, as the breeze cut into him like a knife. There were no clothes in a tidy little pile up the beach, though there was a fireplace built above the high water mark, and what looked like enough fuel for the night at least. He turned away from the waves and walked back across the wet sand, his feet sinking just a little with each step as if he were walking on a giant butterscotch blamance.

As the sand turned dry, the little camp area became much more obvious, and he could see places where the evidence of prior tenants was all too clear; empty Coke cans and pizza boxes strewn across the sand.

He stepped across to the makeshift hearth and filled it with kindling, then twigs, and then he lit it.

It blazed.

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You can see the original post on Ficlets.com by clicking here.

“What are you doing here?”

The fear in Dalton’s voice was evident; to hear it was a real excitement for Langdon.

“I’m meeting Denlow; Why are you here?”

Langdon laughed quietly. There was an unmistakably manic smile on his face that looked reptilian with his mouth slightly open and his tongue protruding between his teeth.

“I thought that you wanted an end to all of this, Dalton. Why did you arrange a meeting on the Pier of all places? Did you think that a public space would offer you some protection?”

The sights and sounds of Brighton Pier had been a comfort to Dalton, while he had waited, but now they suddenly seemed to be a noisy background that might cover any kind of mischief, rather than expose it.

Suddenly Langdon closed the gap between them and thrust a stiletto between Dalton’s ribs, perfectly bisecting the aorta; he would be dead soon, and with limited mess. Langdon sat Dalton down on a nearby bench, lay him down and then opened his copy of the Daily Mail and laid it across his victim’s face.

—

You can see the original post on Ficlets.com by clicking here.

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This Ficlet was inspired by the contribution of a Place, an Item and an Activity on Livejournal by childeric. They were; Brighton Pier, a copy of the Daily Mail, Murder.

So this post has been a long time coming, but what with the traveling and the planes and the excitement there has been NO TIME!!

So the whole story starts a few days ago on the 24th of August. I headed out to Heathrow to catch my first flight, out to Newark, NJ. I had only flown Trans Atlantic once before, but I loved it back then, and I have to say that this time was no different. I know that for some, the idea of being on an airplane for a couple of hours is horrible enough, so seven to eight might seem like hell, but I just love to fly.

In Heathrow, before we left, I met some cool people… The first was a guy called Dan. He was a geography teacher with a cool side-project, making stop-motion films of cities by walking through them on a calculated route designed to show the spectrum of wealth, taking a photograph every 5 metres. He was on his way to Mexico City to do his first foreign trip for the project, and chatting to him about photography, cities and adventures was a load of fun. You can see the stuff about the project here at his site Urban Earth, but the films will not be up until later this year… Just before we got onto the plane I also met Marshall Berman, author of the book “All That Is Solid Melts Into Air”, and his wife. They had been flown over from New York by the South Bank Centre so that he could address the Literary Festival that they were hosting. We chatted for a short while about cities and the way people and their urban environments affect each other – was cool and oddly apposite to meet this relatively celebrated author of books about cities while sitting there with Dan.

Arriving in Newark we came in with an amazing view of NYC on the port side of the aircraft, and much as it was cool to see, it was also a little cruel, because I did not feel confident that I would have time to go in and out of the city before my next flight up to Halifax, Nova Scotia. As it turned out there was a pretty funky delay and I could have done, but you can’t plan for such things…

Anyway on arrival at Newark I got myself through US Border Sec and Customs, picked up my checked suitcase and passed it back to the baggage handlers for my flight north. Once all of that official business was out of the way I needed a beer… The only bar in Terminal A was a TGI Friday’s, so I headed in and scored a spot at the bar, next to a very nice lady, called Erica, who was a CPA (American equivalent of a Chartered Accountant) from Colorado Springs. We passed the time chatting about America, and how much she traveled for work and other smalltalk, and then she had to go and catch her flight and I wanted to find some WiFi to try and get some final arrival instructions from Sarah. Of course the WiFi was not working in Terminal A, so I had to catch the monorail (The Air Train) to Terminal B, where I ended up sitting on the floor in the concourse to get a strong enough signal. All of that, and a video blog, out of the way I headed back to Terminal A and passed through security in search of another beer… I met a really cool guy, called Don, who was a fellow techie and former USAF engineer who was on his way home. It turned out that he had visited the UK for work and we chatted about the differences between the US and England specifically, and he gave me a couple of tips for San Francisco.

Eventually, only two and a half hours late, I was on a little fifty-seater jet on my way to Halifax, already forewarned that I was not going to get a ride down to Saint John that night, as the people who were going to give me a lift were not going to be able to wait around until after two a.m. – a fact that I can totally understand. I ended up on the flight with a fellow Brit, albeit now a naturalised US citizen. Mike was an anaesthetist who had grown up in North London, but had been living with his American wife in Fort Lauderdale, Florida for twenty years. We chatted almost the whole way to Halifax, about his experiences of becoming an American and living in Florida, and about his kids who he was on the way to visit at their summer camp outside Halifax. It was remarkably reassuring to speak to someone basically British, and I had only been away from home for about eighteen hours. Don’t get me wrong, the people that I had met and chatted to in Newark were lovely, but there was still something very odd about hearing American accents everywhere at that point.

I arrived in Halifax at just after half two in the morning and set about the task of waiting nearly six hours for the only bus that would get me to Saint John in time to attend the wedding. This is not as easy as it may sound when you have already gone the better part of twenty-four hours without sleep and gained six hours as well at this point. Luckily Tim Hortons (Canada’s home-grown answer to Starbucks) came to my rescue and provided me with coffee and empty calories, in the form of a Dutchie (a square donut filled with sultanas), and I powered through the night using the much more reliable and FREE WiFi access in the airport. I also met another fellow traveller at this unseemly time in the morning. Sulaiman was born in the US, but had lived in Gaza through most of the Intifada and then moved to Canada two years before. An engineering student and young man he was filled with contradictions for me. Clearly a proud muslim and a proud Palestinian at that, he nonetheless displayed very Western, non-muslim behaviour quite comfortably. I realise that this observation is coloured by my own ignorance of muslim societies around the world and by prejudice, so I hestitate slightly to talk about it in this blog, but hell it was what I was thinking at the time. I have muslim family (by marriage), and none of them or their wider family has ever (for example) made sexual comments about a passing girl, more specifically a non-muslim woman showing more than a little flesh (Halifax Airport is not really a hotbed of hot, sexy women – at least not in the early hours – but she was incredibly hot). Now of course, men are men and we like what we like, so I’m sure that I should not be surprised, but I have always (in my limited experience) found muslim men to be more reserved in this area. Also he was talking to me about his girlfriend back in Edmonton (where he was heading) and it became clear that she was non-muslim and that their relationship was intimate. Again, I have tended to find that although I am sure that muslim men all over the world have pre and extra marital sexual encounters and relationships, they are rarely comfortable discussing them (again in my limited experience), even in the most general of terms. This was all thrown into sharp relief by his passionate railing against Israel and the Israeli approach to his people, their land and so forth. I could not help agreeing with him on a lot of points, particularly his assertion that while he understood the frustration of the martyrs that he could not agree with their approach, but I was still struck by a palpable level of hatred for Israelis. He took great pains to make it clear that it was not Jews that he had a problem with, but Israelis that were not Arabs / Palestinians, who wanted to take control all of his homeland and stop his people from working or even surviving in the land where they have always lived. It was an interesting conversation, peppered with watching each others’ bags for coffee runs, cigarette breaks and toilet trips, and I’m glad that I met him. In fact this chance encounter made for the most contentious, random encounter of my trip, most of the rest had been smalltalk and pleasantries, which while nice and interesting on a trivial level had not really shown me anything new about the people that I met.

Morning finally broke over Halifax about half an hour after Sulaiman had headed through security and I threw a BK breakfast down my neck before heading out to the bus-stop to make sure that I did not miss the Arcadien Line to Saint John. Out at the bus-stop I met a lovely older couple from Ontario who were on their way home from their hideaway in the countryside near to Halifax. They were lovely and welcoming, and tried their hardest to have my next Tim’s as a ‘double, double’ (double cream, double sugar), despite my protestations that coffee should not have additives.

Finally the bus showed up and yet it was full, so the driver put me and the four other new passengers into two cabs out to Truro (the first stop), where he exhorted us to buy tickets for the rest of our journeys as well. It turns out that the bus is not technically supposed to stop at the airport because they have not secured a contract with the airport’s operating company, but all this means in practice is that they don’t sell tickets there. It took four hours to get to Monckton (where I had to change buses) and I slept for the vast majority of that leg of the journey, but once I was on the last leg from Monckton to Saint John I could not sleep any more – excitement was really kicking in at that point.

I cannot really begin to describe the sheer size of the New Brunswick countryside. I have been up to the wide open spaces of Scotland and the Lake District, and all I can say is that there is nothing the in the UK that can properly prepare one for the sheer scale of Canada. For much of the first hour out from Monckton I was able to look out of the bus window and see no sign of humans at all, apart from the road that we were on. No power lines, no roads, no houses – just trees as far as the eye could see. I spoke to a few people later on after I arrived in Saint John about this, and here is the best way I came up with to explain the overwhelming difference; New Brunswick is a small province in Canadian terms, and yet you can fit England into New Brunswick, in terms of land mass. Add to that the fact that there are only about 33Mn people in Canada as a whole, while there are an estimated 60-61Mn people in the UK and you start to get some idea of the different scales we are talking about. It just totally HUGE, there is no way to bend your melon around it.

Anyway, I arrived in Saint John just after two p.m. and was picked up at the bus station by Eric (the bridegroom) and Scott (the best man). They drove me up to Sarah’s parents’ place on the West Side, into the fog, and there I was met with a welcome of such warmth and generosity that my poor British self could barely take it. Sarah, and her parents Liz and Jim, and her sister Jen with nephew Gabe, and her Aunt Anne and her husband Brian were all filled with interest about my trip and offers of beer, coffee and all the sandwiches in the world. As I settled down to enjoy the feeling of coming to rest I started to realise that I was in the middle of some of the final preparations for the wedding. There were flowers and programmes and place setting markers and all kinds of wedding-based goodness flying around. I wandered out to the corner store about an hour later, having also been introduced to Sarah’s brother Noel and his girlfriend Laura, only to get utterly drenched in a flash shower that was so bad Noel came to get me in his car! With a view to waiting out the rain he drove me around the neighbourhood and showed me as much of the place as he could through the driving rain and fog.

The rest of the afternoon, once the rain stopped, was taken up with meeting Dean, Sarah and Eric’s Aussie mate from London who had also made it over for the wedding, and then going up to the home of one of Jim’s friends to borrow a car for the wedding. Doug and Sue’s place looks right down over the Grand Bay where the Kennebecasis River joins the Saint John River for the last few miles of its journey to the Bay of Fundy – I have never seen such a spectacular view from someone’s front room – ever. Doug is a Hot Air Balloon Pilot, as is Jim, and we saw some cool photos of balloons and also of Doug’s semi-tame deer that come up onto his lawn from the surrounding woods. On the way back to the house Noel, Dean and I stopped at Noel’s friend Dana’s house to borrow a jacket for the wedding from Dana, as Noel was lacking an appropriate jacket after a particularly exciting wedding a month earlier. Dana and his partner Robin showed us around their new place – they were just moving in – and I was struck by just how much you can get for your money in Canada at the moment. A lovely three bedroom house, standing in its own ground, with a basement that was frankly huge, and roughly a quarter of the asking price that such a property would have in the UK at the moment. It may well become a recurring theme of these posts that I would like to live in Canada, particularly in the Maritimes, if I get the chance.

That evening was a chance to go out into Saint John’s night-life and meet the rest of ‘the guys’, specifically the other Groomsmen and the other guy who was going to be taking photographs. We had a great time at a bar called the Alehouse, and I now know why the local beer is called Moosehead, because the next morning I felt as though someone had hit me in the head with a Moose.

Ok, I need to head out into San Francisco and not spend the entire day at the computer, so there will be more about Canada later / tomorrow, and hopefully another Video Blog at some point too… For now, tata!

The smell of chilli and sizzling meat washed over him like a wave as he walked into the taqueria, and it smelled really good. he cast his mind back to the last time he had eaten ‘Mexican’ food back at home in England and started to realise that all of the stories may well be true. Soon he would never be able to eat Mexican at home ever again.

The chefs were moving like a well oiled machine, this one tossing the meat on a flat, wide griddle, the other preparing a tortilla with salsa and beans, avocado and sour cream. People in the line were chatting to one another, pointing at the menu, and in the back there was the low hum of diners’ conversations over their food. He turned to his host and guide;

“So what’s good here, Dan?”

“Well, pretty much everything, but if you want a tip, I’m going to get the Super Shrimp Burrito.”

He turned the idea over in his mind, and could see no bad aspects to the idea of Pacific shrimp, griddle fried with chilli and onions and then wrapped up in a tortilla with rice and beans.

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You can see the original post on Ficlets.com by clicking here.

“Here it is at last.”

These were the words that accompanied my father dropping the paper on the breakfast table in front of me.

I looked up and caught the headline:

‘IRA Announces formal end to conflict’

I nodded and went back to eating. There was nothing to say. In the end it was what we all wanted, on both sides of the argument, most people just wanted to get on with their lives, for their kids to be safe. The old hatreds were dying out, and even where they were hanging on, like ticks on a dog, the truth was that even the most hard line soldiers were losing their stomach for it.

“Is that all y’re goin’ ta say?”

“Yes, Da.”

I could feel his eyes burning into my head, almost hear him trying to decide whether or not to start something with me about it, and then it came;

“Those bastards took yer Ma, and even then we won. Do you know what this means son? It means we’re right, we’re better.”

I looked up into his eyes;

“No, Da, it means that less boys will grow up without their Ma. That’s what it means.”

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You can see the original post on Ficlets.com by clicking here.

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This Ficlet was inspired by the English Front Page of Wikipedia reminding me that on this day 3 years ago (28/07/2005) the Provisional IRA officially announced the end to it’s use of pursuit of armed conflict in the effort to achieve a United Ireland.

“Get up! You’re sleepin’ when there is a party goin’ on out here, man! Get up!”

That was woke me at six a.m. Todd is a great guy; friendly, generous, fun. The thing is he had taken quite a few drinks by the time he got to six in the morning and he wanted everyone else to be up still too.

I shot out of bed like there was a fire or something; scared out of sleep. I followed the sounds out of the room I was staying in and wandered into the living room to find Todd holding forth on the joys of Absinthe and exhorting other, bleary eyed people to have fun.

“There you are. Come and have a drink!”

He motioned to the empty seat by the table and pointed at a shot of Absinthe that was sitting there, waiting for me like a little green devil. I knew that I had more than a skinful before I had crashed out at half one. I knew that I should not, under any circumstances, take the shot. I looked at him and was about to say ‘no thanks’ when the green fairy took me by the hand and explained that I needed to have more fun…

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You can see the original post on Ficlets.com by clicking here.

The fog was sitting on the line as they drove up the hill towards the Martello Tower. Franklin loved the way that it always sat at a predictable height, the warm air and the cold bay conspiring to shroud the headland in a soft white blanket, safe from the world.

Jenna pulled the car into the side of the road and they headed up to the tower on foot. It was a long standing tradition of homecoming that they had kept since leaving for college. On the first day that they were both back in town they would head up to the Martello and blaze one up and tell each other the whole truth about everything that happened since the last time they had said their goodbyes at the bus station.

They found somewhere to sit, and Jenna pulled a loose joint out of her glasses case. She put it into her mouth, reversed, to gently wet the paper and make the joint burn slow, then turned it back and lit it, the zippo that she had always used sheltered by her left hand.

Franklin could feel himself being at home; it had been a long road.

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You can see the original post on Ficlets.com by clicking here.

David backed away, on instinct he wanted to be further away from the ape. The open jaws, the sharp pointy canine teeth seeming to glisten in the bright light. There was an anger in the creature’s eyes that he could never remember having seen before in the otherwise docile beast’s behaviour.

Backing away was not helping, however. The ape started to advance quite quickly in fits and starts, not as if it were trying to catch up with David, but simply as if to maintain the distance between them. This was completely out of character, as far as David was concerned. He started to look around for why it might have come on.

He could not see any young that might have come along since had last been in that part of the jungle. Looking around the clearing he could not see any blood or evidence of injury, and the the ape was moving apparently effortlessly, not as though she were injured.

Then it dawned upon him; she may have been attacked by a human since he was last here. He hoped not; that would be most inconvenient.

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You can see the original post on Ficlets.com by clicking here.

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This Ficlet was inspired by the following image:

Photo by dboy (on Flickr)

The heat was what suprised him most. It had been a traditionally chilly July morning at Heathrow, but when he stepped off the plane in Newark he was struck by how much warmer it really was.

Now, standing by the exit of Terminal A at Newark Liberty International Airport he looked out at the crazy over-sized cars and the comings and goings and realised that the movies and television really did not lie; America really does look that way.

A small group of fellow travellers were swapping airline war stories;

“And then they told me the delay was due to poor weather conditions! Do you see any goddamn bad weather?”

“Oh I know. The last time I flew [deleted] they lost my bags. I was travelling for work and I could not change my clothes for thirty-six hours! I mean that’s not service, right?”

He smiled. It was good to be on holiday, to not have a care in the world. So his connecting flight was delayed; it did not really matter.

He wandered back into the terminal, into the bar and sat down.

“Sam Adams, please.”

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You can see the original post on Ficlets.com by clicking here.