travel
Family travel is complicated. And sometimes fun.
Journals found
My uncle, Dheeraj, once found a notebook. It was left on the train. He flipped through it, pocketing it for the lovely coloured pencil drawings of familiar places he found inside. He couldn’t read it, of course. The writing was in English and he barely reads any Hindi, but he took it to the headman in our village and found out that an American was traveling through the area and staying in a village nearby.
By Shelly Poole5 years ago in Families
The Little Black Book
The sun was high in a cloudless sky, its blazing heat making even the shade a little too hot for comfort. Clear blue water outlined white coral sand that was utterly dazzling in the early afternoon light, almost whiter than snow. Bird calls were soft and intermittent, the main noise coming from waves lapping gently against an inclined shoreline, six or eight feet of steepness giving way to the flatness of the beach. The tides on this tropical islet were not dramatic, twenty feet of foreshore at most, the exposed portion bearing evidence of the water’s ebb and flow in its sandy forms tipped with flecks of detritus. More pronounced was the high tide mark with its linear arrangement of larger fragments of vegetation and the odd vestige of marine life, this band a foot wide the narrow nexus of the worlds of flotsam and jetsam. Here, spine upwards and pages flared over a bleached branch, lay a small black book, its dark leather cover enclosing cream-coloured paper that bore the evidence of an ink pen, marks all but blurred after a presumably watery ordeal. This sodden notebook, now recrisping in the baking sun, conferred the poignancy of a human story onto an otherwise untroubled scene.
By James Wilding5 years ago in Families
There Was Something Inside
At our wit’s end, my roommate Candice and I decided that we had to take a chance on not getting COVID-19 and go on a trip. A trip to ease our minds and get us back to some kind of normalcy. We worked at a steakhouse that like so many other restaurants was closed due to the Covid-19 pandemic. Now six months into the pandemic it was time for a break. We decided to take a trip to Precious, Mexico. A small, quaint secluded little village that we read about in The National Museum Magazine. The flight over was Lourd, bumpy and scary. When the plan finally hit the runway, I said an extra prayer of thanks. After going through all of that we still had to rough it another 36 miles by bus to our journey’s end, however it was well worth it. It was everything we ever dreamed of, beautiful people, peaceful, calm and quiet...but most of all a chance to get away from all of the COVID news with no tv service. Our plan was simple for seven days on this beautiful island we would explore the entire community one day at a time. We embraced each day with vigor and enthusiasm. The first few days blew by like a tumbleweed. With only a couple of days left we decided to slow down and really take in the sights. This beautiful morning our walk would take us by the only church in the village. I thought to myself the people must all get alone really well to belong to the same church. The church was very old and it looked a bit wobbly but upon touching the wood it felt like the rock of Gibraltar. It had a magical Ora about it that invited you to go inside. We kept trekking down the beautiful brick lined street until we ended up at an open air market. There was all kinds of handmade and homemade treasures. We stopped at a handmade jewelry booth...the beads were very colorful and for some strange reason they made me think of the church. I became fixed on wanting to go back to the church... I kept thinking someone was inside. I told Candice I would be back. I turned around and walked back towards the church. She asked where I was going? I didn’t answer I just kept walking. I had to see inside the church. As I climbed the steps I was hesitant but I slowly pushed on the door and it began to open. At that moment I could feel Candice’s hot breath on my back. I pushed the door open wide enough to stick my head in and Candice stuck her head under my arm. We saw a young couple weeping. I thought maybe they were having marital problems and needed the church’s help. A few minutes passed and they walked over to the alter. There was a large black book, a bible I thought on the pedestal in front of them; they lifted the top and I noticed small gold hinges at both ends. A casket I whispered, I could hear Candice gasp as we slowly backed out of the door. We didn’t speak, we quietly walked away. We were walking slower now and it wasn’t our usual chitter-chatter. It felt like we were quietly mourning with the couple from the church. Trying to walk off our sorrow, we lost all track of time and ended up on a stretch of beach that looked abandoned. The waves were rough yet calming and the suns rays warmed our aching hearts like a soaring barn fire. In between our stops I caught a glimpse of something in the water. I asked Candice if she saw something and before I knew it she had jumped in the water. I was terrified for her because I could not swim. I knew if she got in trouble I could not help her. I began screaming her name in horror. A large wave came in and covered her entire body. By now I was crying hysterically... I though I had lost her. When the waves went back out I could see her coming towards me. Feeling a bit of courage I ran out to meet her. I noticed a blue metal box in her hand...”it’s heavy help me” she said. I grabbed one end of the box and we got it ashore. After a brief rest we hauled the box back to our room. Our next ordeal was getting the box open, it had a lock on the front and back. After trying everything we could think of I decided to go to the office and borrow a hammer...they looked at me strange but they gave it to me. It took some hitting and knocking but after forty minutes we finally got it open. To our disbelief there was no water in the box...it was airtight. A large set of keys was on top, a letter that said to be opened by my wife Mrs. Bertha Harris, a small black book and a bunch of fishing bait. The black book was the key to everything. On the first page it read: This book belong to Lee Marshall Harris the date is September 20, 2017 and if you are reading this you have found my last communication on this earth. The book went on to say that he wanted everything in the box to be returned to his wife Bertha Harris.
By Lisa T. McMillan5 years ago in Families
The Hunt
The night before, John P. Davies was getting things together. He was finalizing the details of the clues in a little black notebook. When he was finished, he placed the bookmark inside and closed it. He placed the book on his desk, along with last will and testament, drawings and other maps construed among the desk.
By Audrea Lynn Mann5 years ago in Families
Dear Alice
Dear Alice, If you are reading this, true to cliché, I must be gone. I have left something for you. I know you will figure it out, you were always a smart one. I want to have one final adventure, but be kind to my memory, sometimes we don’t get to choose our path.
By Karolina P5 years ago in Families
10:05 to Heathrow
Colin clenched his fists and closed his eyes. He had read an article on conscious breathing and decided to try. He took a long, deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. His eyes were still closed but he could feel it. Wheels up. They were off the ground.
By Andre Hilliard5 years ago in Families
Unfinished
March 12, 2021. The long-awaited day. Today I dare to say that luck, or perhaps my never-before recognized gifts, could change my life. Today is the day I dial the foreign number belonging to the child I haven't seen for far too long... For as long as, there’s not only a legal jargon keeping us apart, but also the abysmal distance between two non-allied countries. Not to mention the restrictions of a pandemic and a sum of money I never manage to save, but that would solve everything... Because money opens doors, oh yes, it doesn’t buy happiness they say, but it surely buys those who can give it to you. For years I’ve tried to buy mine but, after endless dreams and unfulfilled promises, thousands of hours worked and 20 books published without the expected success, the $20,000 prize of this literary competition is the only remaining path between my family and me.
By Medusa Stone5 years ago in Families
