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And... that's all folks.
The flood is over for another issue, and you can flop about on the sand, gasping for breath, and waiting for the waters to return.
For now, thank you for reading.
By Calum Kerr - June 17, 2018 5 comments:
It's more socially acceptable than talking or muttering to yourself.
If you write with a pen, pencil or quill, or alternate hands on the computer keys, it leaves one hand free for the candy bowl.
Your family and friends will label you the, "quiet, serious" type. When called upon to join in on a conversation you'd rather not be part of, you can look up and say, "Oh excuse me, did you say something?" eyelids fluttering as if you'd just emerged from a fugue state.
You will be amazed how quickly this catches on. In no time at all, others will be making excuses for you. You won't even need to open your mouth. "Oh never mind her," your sister, friend or colleague will say, "she's a writer."
After awhile, you may not need to talk at all. Said sister, friend or colleague will do your parts for you, while you happily scribble away, perhaps offering the occasional distracted nod, so you aren't taken for anti-social or rude.
Snacks are not an interruption to the creative process, as they might be for other professionals. Actually doing it well—writing that is—is super hard and requires constant fuel. Easily manipulated items such as cookies and chocolates are perhaps preferable. But the occasional cheesecake or ice cream sundae may be called for. Maneuvering a fork or spoon while avoiding spills onto the page or (heaven forbid) the computer keys, can be tricky, but worth the extra effort.
Staring into space or into the swirl of steamed milk on your cappuccino is entirely acceptable behavior for the writer. It's called "thinking," which is something all writers must do. Trust me.
Some say walking is also effective and that it brings the added benefit of counter-acting the tendency for the writer's muscles to atrophy. But there are, as yet, no empirical studies to back up these claims. My own research, on the other hand, amply demonstrates the critical role of unabashed snacking and staring dreamily into the world beyond your eyeballs, or behind them, if you're so inclined. You might even experience an epiphany!
I've no idea how many reasons that is. I'm a writer, after all. I can't be bothered with mathematics. But here's one more, an important one.
Writing is the fountain of youth, seriously. Better than face cream or intermittent fasting, better than cross-word puzzles or learning a new language. You may look like a dinosaur on the outside, but inside, man, you are nimble as a grasshopper, and springy too.
Oh dear, the candy bowl is empty. Nothing between the couch cushions or beneath my thighs. Not even a stray Skittle in my bra. My eyelids are heavy, so heavy. I set the tools of my trade down, plump the pillows, and slump to a prone position.
Two hours later, I pick up where I left off.
Oh yeah, restorative naps, another excellent reason to write.
She drags her suitcase away from the bottom of the escalator and sits on it. She watches the metal stairs unfolding, disappearing, backs of heads going up to the Main Line station, faces coming down – an elaborate choreography of avoidance as people, pushchairs, bags, shoes, criss-cross in front of her, left to right, right to left, Victoria, District and Circle Lines, blue, green, yellow routes, exiting, entering.
The clasps of her suitcase unsnap. Inside, a black leather case, battered, curved. She takes out the violin, tightens the bow and waits for his introduction. She imagines the opening broken chords of his piano, chords that will gently ascend, descend, support her melody. And she plays their song, their story.
There's an Egyptian limestone statue in the British Museum, two seated figures, a man and a woman, their clothing androgynous, height distinguishing one from the other. She's holding one of his hands with both of hers. They are looking straight ahead, certain of their relationship.
Her melody is sustained, buoyant, floating on his piano. She ascends slowly adding a note, taking another step, moving further away, but always returning to the beginning, home. There is no drama in this music, the song serene. Their story is simple, timeless.
The provenance of the statue was unknown, the figures labelled anonymous. She has a photograph of her teenage-self standing next to it. When she re-visited the museum the figures were smaller than she remembered. Recently they have been identified as Horemheb and Amenia. It's an important statue now, preserved in a protective glass case, unreachable.
She takes a breath and gently slows towards the final notes. She listens as the last sound echoes then disappears. She loosens her bow, returns her violin to its case and closes her suitcase, ready to move on.
First published: Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine 10:1(April 2017)
She stands in the darkness of the back garden wearing her red water-proof coat and green wellingtons. Underneath only her nightgown. It is 4 am and the garden has a covering of snow. Something she was not expecting when she left her husband sleeping. She has two carefully folded white sheets under her arm. A green plastic petrol can in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. She feels the cold wind like a sharp slap on her face; a bitterness cutting into her legs, through her nightgown. Making her body tense. Her hands rigid.
She thinks she has never seen snow this white, this luminous. Never seen the garden so beautiful. Or desolate. Like a secret world. For what the night does not hide, the snow does, flattening, folding itself around contours. Trees stand like silent witnesses. Huge white hands pleading to the dark sky. She looks at her footprints that make plain the short journey she has taken from the house. Her tracks defiling the covering of snow. If it does not snow again, or thaw, her tracks will be obvious in the morning. She does not know if she cares.
She takes a few more steps, hears the snow creek, almost groan, under her feet. Finds the garden incinerator next to the compost heap. Wipes the snow from its lid with her bare hand. She places the sheets on to the lid of the container. The scissors allow her to cut across the outer seams of the sheets. She tears. It takes all her strength but there's a satisfying ripping noise that echoes into the silence.
She places the torn pieces in the dry bottom of the incinerator, carefully splashes them with petrol, lights a match and drops it in. Nothing. The match has extinguished. She tries again. The reaction is immediate. An orange flame surges from the sheets to the top of the incinerator. She steps back. The snow under the incinerator legs melts. She continues cutting and tearing, dropping more strips of sheet in the fiery container. A circle of green is now spreading outwards from the incinerator. Like a growing oasis in a cold white desert.
The heat is so intense she has to throw the strips from some feet away. Flames lap the top of the incinerator, so that her face begins to feel sore from the heat. Her back still cold. Her boots squelching in the green under her feet.
She hears the distant sound of a train. Impatient drumming fingers. Fainter, fainter. Like a memory, a longing. Walks a few steps towards it, raises her head to listen until it is silenced. She sees a band of silver grey at the edge of the sky. And wipes her tears with the back of her hand, as the strength within her grows.
While looking in all directions, Travis darted down the street with his baseball bat gripped in his hand. He knew he shouldn't be out here, but he was tired of living like this; he needed a reminder of how life was before it all ended – a time where you could walk down the street without the fear of someone jumping out at you and trying to devour your flesh.
Travis held his side as he reached the row of shops before him. He checked behind him for any oncoming attackers, and on seeing that he remained alone, he then stepped towards the shop in the middle and stopped. His attention focused on the gold coloured words 'R Cuts' that shimmered against the black base of the shop sign. 'Phew, I've made it,' he said.
He pushed open the shop door. The door creaked – the only sound to alert the occupants of his presence. He stepped inside and observed his surroundings. A solitary hairdressing sink with an accompanying chair was to his left, a single chair in front of a wall mirror was to his right, and a plasterboard barrier divided the room horizontally. 'Hello, anyone here?' he called, gripping his baseball bat.
Footsteps stomped towards the partition, and a gap slowly appeared in the barrier revealing a scarlet-haired woman. 'What do you want?' said the woman, stepping through the new gap in the partition and slapping a hammer against her hand.
'I heard you still run your hair salon?'
'Yeah, why?'
'I need a haircut. Can you do it for me, love?'
The scarlet-haired woman threw her hands to her hips. 'Don't 'love' me, mate, my name's Ruby.'
'Sorry, bab, I mean, Ruby. So, the haircut?' Travis ruffled his ponytail. 'I'm tired of the Rapunzel look.'
'What have you got to trade?'
Travis glanced at Ruby's breasts, which were snugly hugged by her vest top. He smiled, pulled out his empty jeans pockets and shrugged. 'I've got nothing but my body.' He winked at Ruby. 'You can have that if you want?'
Ruby rubbed her chin and glanced up at the ceiling. 'Hmm,' she said, returning her focus to Travis. 'I think we have a deal.'
Travis dropped his baseball bat on the floor, ripped off his T-shirt, unbuttoned his jeans and yanked them down.
'Bob!' shouted Ruby.
Travis paused.
Minutes later, heavy footsteps pounded towards them, and then a bald-headed giant-looking man clutching a bloodstained crowbar walked through the gap in the partition. He stood beside Ruby. 'What's up?' he said, scanning Travis from head to toe before his attention landed on Travis's once-white boxers.
Travis yanked up his jeans; he wasn't expecting an audience.
Ruby faced Bob. 'Here's another one for you.'
I sit in the pub, the flames of the fire reflected in the curves of my glass, glaring at the young man, spiky hair thick with gel, year-old Aston Villa top hanging off his thin spotty frame.  I can hear his voice from my seat, at the other end of the pub.
"Caned", he says.
"Drunk."
"Inebriated."  He smiles.
"Intoxicated".
"Pissed."
"Cabbaged"
"Pie-eyed."
"Bombed".
"Plastered."
I glare across the bar at him, his loud voice making my head ache.
"Loaded."
"Merry."
"Pickled."
"Sloshed."
"Soaked."
"Well-oiled, slaughtered, lashed."  The man pauses to down his pint, his friends finding him one of the greatest wits they had ever met.
"Fuddled."
"Canned"
"Mullahed."
"Half seas over."
"Tanked up."
"Stewed".
"Stoned."
He pauses to think.  His face wrinkles as he does so.
"Under the influence."
"Blitzed"
"Monged".  "Arseholed."  "Tiddly."
"Tight."
"Hammered".  He raises an eyebrow.  He's obviously remembered a beauty.  "Bacchic", he says proudly.
But then he notices me watching him from across the bar, and shouts at me, "What's your problem, then?"
I stare at him in silence, as the man shrugs his shoulders then says to his friends, "Ah, he's only jealous 'cos I'm a drinking man."
He is, of course, wrong.
But I would have been impressed - had I not known that Eskimos have twenty-nine words for snow.
Even with a pastel cloud of candy floss obscuring her face, the woman next to me is familiar. Flecks of sugar get caught in the scattered moles on her chin as she chews.
When the music starts, her body tenses.
'It looks fast, but they'll be OK. Is it your granddaughter you're waiting for?'
'My daughter.'
I can't see anyone older than six on the carousel.
'I watched her get on it. But I never saw her get off.'
My skin prickles as I realise who she is.
'I - I'm sorry. I saw her in the paper.'
We all did. Years ago. She was the story of the decade - until she wasn't.
'She climbed up on that horse, right there. But I never saw her get off.'
The girl with the chestnut hair and moon-blue eyes beamed out from posters and milk cartons for years. Ubiquitous. Then she faded into background news, for everyone but this woman.
'Today's her birthday'.
'Do you come back every year?'
She turns to me, chewing the now barren wooden stick between yellowed teeth.
'I come back every day.'
She tosses the stick to the floor.
'We'd argued, you know.'
I knew. I'd read every word of the interviews as a teen. Our nation became armchair detectives. Until we remembered our chores, our lives.
'I only put her on to give me five minutes' peace. You know how children are.'
I think of tantrums, untidy bedrooms and refused meals. As the carousel slows to a stop, I watch the exit gate like a hawk.
My daughter bounds over.
'Mom! Can I ride again?'
I embrace her, tight.
'Of course! I'll go with you.'
I turn to the woman, inadequate.
'It was nice to meet you.'
I squash my daughter onto my stomach as though I can envelop her back into the safety of my womb. I marvel at the miracle of her hair, feel her warm tummy rising under my hands, inhale her laughter. We pass the woman on the bench over and over, until the last time, when the carousel starts to slow, when I look over and she is gone.
I wanted to plant Jasmine in our garden.
I imagined us reading on the patio, surrounded by its scent on summer evenings, after the tang of barbequed food and cedar smoke has wafted away.
Jasmin draws bees and good fortune, keeps away jealousy and midges. It was the scent of my teenage years, when things seemed infinitely more urgent and I would smoke on the flat roof outside my bedroom window at dawn. I'd come back peaceful, smelling of its perfume instead of rancid ash.
But our garden faces the wrong way and our house blocks the light needed for what I want.
I went with my husband's suggestion. After he told me that my Jasmine would grow twisted and ugly outside of full sunlight, he kept right on talking until I was encircled by disenchanting options. I nodded and asked questions about pruning but I have long since forgotten the answers.
Now, we have Clematis. It grows like weeds, stretching out grasping tendrils that, when unable to find purchase, pull at me as I walk to the shed for paper towels or washing powder. I skirt the edges of their reach and I carry sharpened, red-handled pruners whenever I venture outside my own back door.
Every now and again I hack at them with shears, reefing the twisting vines until the entire plant seems to cave toward me, as if to smother me bodily. I wonder if one day those arms will reach out and pull me into their darklit corner, their haven of shade.
As I sit at my kitchen table and pay the bills, I wonder why anyone would build a house that faces the wrong way.
By Calum Kerr - June 16, 2018 No comments:
A grubby hand punches through the open window of my musty-smelling estate demanding money; his arm hairs tickle my nose and my eye follows his pointed finger along a muddy track to a youth wearing an oversized radioactive green hi-viz gillet. The youth beckons me onwards, stopping me with a Native American How, indicating my trading spot for the next four hours.
Mourning my Sunday paper lie-in, I unload a horde of essential-at-the-time junk onto the dewy grass and fight with the bent legs of my dad's saggy pasting table to display my dusty bargains. Professional car-booters rootle through my unwanted chattels with black-Friday style abandon, firing questions at me like a Guantanamo Bay interrogation:
'Jewellery?'
'Designer bags?'
'Porcelain?'
'Gold.'
Yes, and I've put them in a special box along with the Faberge Egg over there, marked MUG.
'How much for Alanis Morrisette, luv?'
'CD's? 50p.... luv.' I say, getting the hang of the lingo.
Rummaging around in his jeans pocket he places a groinally heated coin into the palm of my hand which I throw like a burning ember into my cash tin.
A woman grinds the fabric of a Next suit my husband bought for a christening between her nicotine-stained fingers, sniffing the length of the trousers like a lover kissing a woman's arm.
'It's only been worn once,' I offer, '£3?'
'50p? It's for my son, for court. It might not fit and I don't want to take the risk.'
'£2? You can't get much for two quid these days.'
'Sorry luv, 50p's me limit, its the risk...'.
'Yes, you said. Fine. Far be it from me to deny your son a decent outfit to wear in court. What's he done?'
'Nothing luv, he's the brief!'
When the ground was hard in winter, you'd tell me the birds couldn't get to the worms. You drizzled a tap over the stale end of a loaf, tearing beak-sized chunks, and I made it my job to carry the bowl down the garden. The brittle blades squeaked, bending under my feet. I inched forwards, following the long plumes of my own breath, your corduroy knees at one elbow.
Heavy wingbeats and burbling coos signalled the arrival of the pigeons on the telephone lines, their fat bodies sagging the cables.
"Greedy birds," you'd say, as we watched the robins hopping round the outskirts, searching for a gap amongst the plump, cobalt feathers.
Robins started to visit me, after you died. Christmas cards would have us believe they are a winter bird, but they came in incongruous seasons; landing on the stone sill of my kitchen and cocking their head, peering in with one shiny eye. I wonder if you knew the legend of the robin's red breast. It's said that he flew to Jesus, comforting Him as He died on the cross, and is forever stained with His blood. The robins watched my lips through the glass.
Kirsty chews the corner of her mouth as she listens to me talk about the birds. Then she talks about the sweets you always had in your pockets, and how you drew kids like swarms. I watch the window mist over with the steam from my cup. A kid's trike has been abandoned outside but the colours are muted under the condensation, until the glass starts to run with heavy beads of water. Kirsty sighs, tells me there was talk too. She curls around the mug she is clutching, hiding it inside the folds of her coat that fall forward with a curtain of dark hair.
I think of the play-park at the end of the street. When I was done with the swings, you'd take my hands and spin me until my feet left the ground, going faster and faster until sky, grass, and the faces of children I didn't know all became one streaky circle. Your big, laughing face was the steady centre in my blurry world.
You'd lower me carefully, my feet dragging a giddy arc in the bark chips, where I'd rest pink cheeks and inhale the woody flakes, the dampness seeping quickly into my clothes. When I rolled over, you were already twirling another, as the kids flocked around you chirping me, me, me, me, me!
When I read more about robins I find out they are a spring bird. They are about renewal and rebirth. A sign to forget the past, one post says. And I wait for one to appear.
It was a typical Monday morning. Office workers strolled in lazily from the weekend which had left them feeling sorry for themselves. Daniel hobbled to his seat, switching on his computer which moaned about working almost as much as he did.
"Nice weekend?" Gerry, the IT technician, wandered into the office and directed his predictable question to its occupants. No response.
"Kettle's boiled. Do you want a top up?"
A young graduate looked briefly in the direction this question had drifted in from before returning to her work.
This was Gerry Portly's life: dull, boring and depressing. The optimist in him made him believe someday, one of the many people he fixed IT related problems for would acknowledge his hard work and commitment; his dedication; his power and mastery of being able to solve most problems with 'try turning it off and on again'.
Walking to his desk, Gerry froze. Over the weekend, photographs of his nephews had disappeared. His laptop gone. His collection of pointless and ever growing hard drives absent. Had someone fired him without him knowing?
"Excuse me Mr Greaves. I..." The sentence hung there, expectant but unfinished as Gerry shuffled into his manager's office.
"Ah, Mr Hughes, thank you. Come on in. We're so glad you could start at such short notice. Our old IT technician, Gerry, just disappeared. Went home one day and didn't come back. Poof!"
Mr Hughes coughed uncomfortably, taking his seat.
Gerry's ears were ringing. 'Disappeared'? 'Didn't come back'? 'Poof'? He was standing right there.
"Er, Mr Greaves. I'm sorry. I think there's been some terrible misunderstanding."
His words trickled from him in rapid succession, falling on deaf ears as Mr Greaves and Mr Hughes were in deep conversation; it was like he didn't even exist.
Didn't exist? The idea was absurd. But it did ring true. For weeks now, he had felt almost certain but not quite sure.
He ran to the toilets, recalling how he had been repeatedly ignored. Trodden on. Pushed past. Disregarded. Gripping the sink, he looked in the mirror.
But he wasn't there. Staring back at him was vacant air.
He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes and pushed hard, rubbing them repeatedly to try and make them work properly. But it didn't matter. When he took them away he still saw nothing.
The door to the toilets opened, his colleagues voices' drifting into the room. He dashed into a cubicle, locking the door quietly.
"So, what do you think happened to him? A guy doesn't just disappear."
"I suppose so, but then, to be fair, he was never really here anyway. I mean, he was here, but not here if you know what I mean. He was like a ghost. Things got broken. Things got fixed. But you never saw who was doing it."
The toilet cubicle door swung open.
Turning sharply, the two men looked to see who had been listening.
But no-one was there.
My mom stabs coin-sized pockets into a pork shoulder. This allows vinegar to swish through the muscle fibers—like white wine in a sommelier's mouth: in, then out again.
The vinegar is unavoidable, she says. It cleans the pork and kills all unwanted bacteria.
There are parts of myself that I know are unwanted by others, those angry men and women I see on TV. My skin is the sepia tone of a vintage photograph they'd rather keep locked away in a chest. Would they scrub the Spanish from my tongue? Perhaps they'd flense away our language, peel it back like a layer of porky fat and rub the wounds raw with salt.
I stand at my mom's side, rolling unpeeled cloves of garlic in my palm like dice. I want to ask her if she is also afraid of those men and women. But, she's busy. She reaches into the bowl to work the meat, and when her fingertips, too often riddled with paper cuts and random nicks, make contact with the acidic bath, they whiten.
Does it hurt? I ask.
She shrugs. I know the pain well, she says. You'll learn, too.
originally published in The Airgonaut
The female octopus gets a valentine in a bottle of ruby glass. It's from a male who's completely unremarkable, stubbornly cream colored, never varying. Eight-legged. Forgettable. The valentine is an offer of sperm. She can't say no.
She can't refuse because her body tells her that death is near and she must reproduce. It's more thanantos than eros. She is neither sentimental nor philosophical, just plain tired. She starts looking for a den. From the time she was little and unlikely to survive, she already had a den in mind. It is an ideal cave, with a dagger-rock entrance, located not far from where she was swimming when she found the valentine. Off she goes.
In the cave she shatters the bottle and little fragments of paper drift away. Her sweetheart's penis is inside, his detachable hectocotylus, filled with sperm. She inserts the organ and fertilizes the eggs before releasing them.
Now her life begins again. Everything, all the living and surviving, the motion and evading, has been leading up to this. She will never have another meal. She'll guard the eggs, cover them with soft sand, and keep a current going so that these babies always have fresh air and moving water. It's a fact that she will kill any predator who draws near, but it doesn't take much to scare off a crab. The bigger fish are another matter. Sometimes she is forced to shoot a glorious spray of ink that blacks out the sea.
The cave is world enough.
The octopus loses her beauty. Her skin goes from violet to white, and her eyes, once coal-bright spots of intelligence, become milky, but she can still see her eggs. A miniature octopus is visible inside each one; every baby has eight quivering legs that look capable of pounding their way out.
One morning a fragment of red glass catches the light at the mouth of the cave. The first baby shoots out, chasing that red light. There is another baby, and then another. Endless babies. An ocean's worth of babies.
Only one of these will grow to adult size and make it to a marine laboratory. At the laboratory is a scientist, an inspired researcher, who will shake each of the octopus's eight long legs in greeting. There will be much discussion of touch, communication and consciousness. There will be grants. There will be octopus T-shirts for sale. The octopus will have a human name. He will be famous. He will evolve into an escape artist who can pass through a coin-sized hole. He will become an accomplished thief, a collector of shiny objects. One day he will steal the scientist's favorite pen.
And the story he writes will be his own. A blistering family history. A shocking tell-all. A best seller. Beyond the realm of the human imagination.
The closing credits rolled; the theme tune opening with power chords that would bring a tear to a Guns'n'Roses fan. They watched as she wrote with furious haste.
She was the most feared movie critic in Hollywood. Her words determined whether your premiere was attended by a cast of Hollywood's finest, or the cast of Star Trek.
Wishes Puddlestock!
The name struck fear in the heart of every movie producer, director and pretzel vendor.
The music ended, and house lights faded up. Most of the film critics were already sipping Mai Tais on 42nd street, but not Wishes. Hunched over her pad, she guarded her words as they poured onto the page like molasses on homemade ice cream.
"She's taking too long dammit." Ralph Ecclestein paced. A long review from Wishes was bad. Her five-star reviews were always less than ten words.
"Someone remind me to call Leonard Nimoy's agent in the morning."
"Booking him for the premiere again boss?" Ecclestein's assistant ventured the question; but no coherent answer came. Just a series of grunts and muffled swears as Ecclestein continued doing laps of the viewing booth.
"She had her eyes closed for most of it, m-m-maybe that's a good sign?" The meek voice came from a dark corner of the room.
"What?" Ecclestein swung around. "Who the hell are you? What are you talking about? Who is this guy?"
"Boss! He's the new intern. What do you mean kid? What are you saying? Get over here!"
"Well … It's just … I noticed her close her eyes a lot. She was concentrating hard. Especially at that scene. You know, where the mafioso confesses his love for the gal who's about to have her appendix taken out by the her father's rival; the one pretending to be a surgeon?"
"That's the best scene of the whole damn movie!"
"Yeah, well her eyes were closed for most of it."
"Dialogue!" Ecclestein punched the table. "Dammit! She was concentrating on dialogue."
The discussion continued. Oblivious to it all, Wishes Puddlestock looked up and noticed the empty seats and blank screen. She put her pen down and took a deep breath. Moonlighting for Mills & Boon was taking its toll, but as usual she was able to complete a brand-new story in less than 120 minutes.
She'd already reworded the review she'd written for Ecclestein's previous movie. They were always the same anyway.
She put her pen and pad away and wondered if this should be her last review. Writing love stories was really all she ever wanted to do; maybe it was time to start doing it with the lights on. It felt like the right time to tell people that Wishes Puddlestock was putting down her pen and taking up … her other pen.
She headed for the door and waved at the viewing booth, stretching her fingers out to assure Ecclestein of his five stars. He didn't see her, he was busy on the phone ordering flowers for George Takei.
From my vantage point I have a view into your world.
Your life history. Page by page.
Every morning you are the first one awake. At 6:30 you open the back door and let the dog out. You don't like the dog. The dog doesn't like you. You are not its master.
When the morning sun is out you raise your head up into the rays.
You engulf yourself into the warmth of the sun. For a second you look. Happy.
Then chaos ensues as the rest of the house awake. In the madness you blend into the background. Invisible in your own house. But I see you.
You go to say goodbye to her. The body language speaks volumes. She recoils as you move closer. Eventually letting you kiss her on her cheek. She swats your arm away like an irritating fly as you try to affectionately touch her. You look like you have been mortally wounded. Weighed down with sadness you slouch out of the house.
Calmness descends as the house empties. The house breathes a sigh of relief.
She potters about the everyday mundane that nobody likes to do.
At 1pm, Tuesday and Thursday her lover slithers into your house.
Her body language is different. They could not be closer. Passion and lust in equal measure. They make love on the kitchen diner floor.
The new flooring that you laid last Bank Holiday weekend. By yourself. On your own. Alone. I feel sick for you. I feel hurt for you. I want to tell you.
I know if I told you it would not hurt as much. But I am not allowed.
Those are the rules. My stupid rules.
Thirteen hours later you return.
You move silently around the dimly lit room. Like a considerate intruder.
You even pierce the film on the microwave meal as quietly as possible. Just to ensure you don't wake anybody from their slumber. Always kind, always thinking of others.
You start to eat. After a few mouthfuls you raise your head. Chewing, you survey your domain. When you finish chewing you still keep looking around the empty space in the room. You look lost. Alone. I feel a tear roll down my cheek.
Every morning you are the first one awake.
At 6:30 you open the back door and let the dog out.
Today you stand in the morning sun.
With your arms outstretched it looks like you are trying to hug the sun. I share a smile with you.
I was a kid on the packed lunch table. Actually there were two packed lunch tables. There was the one where the fussy or rich kids sat. Their mothers packed brightly coloured lunch boxes, which nestled into each other. I don't think there were many fathers packing lunches then.
On our table, aside from the girl who had an Um Bungo carton and a Wagon Wheel everyday, we all had a white sliced sandwich (Marmite or lemon curd in mine), an apple and a drink. Our mums went out to work. Mine was a nurse, mostly working nights.
My sandwich looked least nice because my mum wouldn't cut the crusts off (it put hairs on my chest). But, for fun, I would press my sandwich together, between my index finger and thumb, multiple times, all over, until it was a really thin version of its former self. Then, I'd drink the warm lemon squash in the smelly tall blue Tupperware, wrapped in a plastic bag because it leaked.
There wasn't any point in complaining about the smelly, sticky Tupperware, Mum had lost her sense of smell as a child having a deviated septum corrected. My right nostril was blocked too but every lunch time, I vowed that I would never have the operation to correct it and I would be the mum who would be able to smell yucky Tupperware AND cut the crusts off and definitely cut the sandwich into mini triangles too. I'd also be the mum who would put in a Wagon Wheel to cheer me up if say, Mrs Wilson made me copy out my poem as many times as was needed (in pencil, because my handwriting wasn't ready for ink pen, trying not to let my hot tears drip on the page, while Jennifer Lawrence got a gold star) until I could work out what was wrong with it.
She trod determinedly across the rocky shore, a lantern swaying in her shaking hand. The moon shed a pale light on the sea; the tide had slipped out and only a soft wind stirred.
Against the sky, the once majestic ship lay tipped and torn. Its tattered sails glowed like sleeping wraiths.
All of the surviving crew had been rescued; she knew that. Yet she was curious to see, and to know, how it ended. She owed him that much.
People spoke of a storm like none before. She had been stricken by the sound of its anger; thrashing around their cottage all through that long night.
He'd never spoken much about being at sea; perhaps he had been content out there. She gazed at the wreck through warm tears and she whispered to him, as the breeze stirred the sails into ragged, beautiful shapes.
'Two Hundred Years Ago We Would Have Been Dead By Now' by Louise Mangos
Forty years of twisting hands inside her belly, dragging at her guts for five days every month, as regular as a Swiss train.
Three natural births, each round head inherited from their high-browed father, burning as they crowned, leaving their imprints on her cervix and her memory like the sear of a cattle brand.
Five years of crimson flames rising from her breasts to wrap around her throat like a hungry serpent. Five years of the softening of flesh between her hips where she used to be as flat as a carpenter's bench. Five years pressing her cheek against the cold glass of windowpanes, and grabbing menus from passing waiters to use as fans. Five years peeling herself from sodden bed sheets, and standing naked in front of the open fridge in the middle of the night.
But most of all, it's the darkness in her head, the illogical anger and inexplicable shame. She spirals down, this feeling that her life is over. He no longer looks at her with hunger in his eyes. Someone needs to catch her in a safety net and persuade her that there is something worth living for.
The warden himself delivers Henry's special meal, cooked by another prisoner. Watches him eat. Henry's request: chicken fried steak, French fries, green beans in fat back, cola, hot apple pie a la mode. He finishes the steak, fries, beans. Slurps the last sips of cola through his straw. Hears the tray scrape the metal desk as he pushes away the pie. "Not hungry?" asks the warden. "Saving it for after," Henry says. The warden prays. Henry's role in the botched robbery: never clear. Boom boxes, computers, sawed-off shotgun: his basement, his prints. IQ: borderline. Gurney strapped, Henry asks the warden, "Hold my hand?" The warden rubs his own hands together, takes Henry's in his, checks the clock, nods. He's done this before. Anesthesia catches Henry. He sees steam rising from the pie, running rivers of ice cream.
First published in (b)OINK; Issue 5; June 9, 2017
I'm going to ask her tonight, definitely. Dad said, you're not even twelve son, what's next – extra pocket money for johnnies? Mum told him not to be vulgar, then smiled at me; that smile that makes me want to yank her to the knees by the hair: shout, I'm not a baby, Mum.
It's in the sports hall like always, but this year they've got a proper DJ, not just one of the dads. There she is, all curled hair and sprayed-on glitter. I go to tap her shoulder, but James and Jeremy, in the opposite corner, look at me all, why are you going up to a girl? So, before she turns around, I jump on her back: mime a lasso at them one-handed. Dig my knees into her skinny hips and breathe in marshmallows. Then I'm falling forwards. I put out my hands but my landing is broken. I roll off. And her blood's on my knees. More of it trapped in the grooves of my trainers.
What happened? says Mr Miller, with a face like a father's instead of a Head's.
And she looks at me through the bloodied fingers at her nose. And I look back, scared, with sorry in my throat. And she opens her mouth, spits a small red pool. Then she looks at Mad Miller: I'm sorry sir, she says, I slipped.
The plan was to do the place up and flip it but Mary knew that wasn't going to happen soon as she came home from work and found Reg sitting on the couch, tea towel wrapped around his fist. He'd started ripping out the old bathroom that morning. Got the ventilation grill half out before the chair slipped out from under him.
"For god's sake. There's a ladder in the shed."
"I didn't want to waste time."
He'd dripped blood right up the hallway and all over the kitchen floor. Hadn't bothered to clean it up, though the mess on the bench showed that he'd found the time to make lunch.
Mary squinted through the dried blood on his palm. "Did you clean it out at least?"
"Ran it under the tap."
"Could be infected. Could be tetanus."
"It'll be right. I just need a rest."
Flog off the first house, use that to jump up the ladder a little. Do that a couple more times and they'd be sweet. In a few years time she'd leave work, and they'd cash up. Early retirement in a place by the sea. Tauranga maybe, or Raglan.
Reg had plenty of excuses. Marty was going to come round and give him a hand, but he cancelled last minute. It was too damp. Too dry. Waiting for wood. He clipped things out of the Property Press, run down shacks in prosperous suburbs, bought for the land, knocked down and replaced with apartments. Wouldn't hear of getting professionals in.
Six months later Mary leaned on the ladder and looked up at the ventilation grill. Reg had broken the plastic clip and it now it didn't fit right.
She did her best.
By Calum Kerr - June 16, 2018 1 comment:
Mother wears me like a skin.
Or a coat she can put away when no longer needed.
Mother shows me off, exposes me when she wants the world to see. Covers me up when she'd rather not know I'm there, like a mole or a scar on otherwise perfect flesh.
Mother takes what she wants from me. I gave you the ultimate gift. Can't you give me a little something? Don't I deserve it?
My perfume scents her neck. My handbag has her life in it—phone, wallet, but my lipstick, which isn't a shade that flatters her. The color makes her teeth look translucent, unnatural, as if they could move on their own, grip and rip without her knowledge or care.
And they do.
I hide as much of myself from her as I can. I opened an account at another bank, online, so I will have my own money in case I might someday get out of this town and away. Distance myself from her sharp smile, her outstretched hand.
Don't I deserve it?
She comes into my room as I'm getting ready for bed, combing my hair before I put it in braids for the night.
Her sigh of longing makes me freeze.
I wish I had this hair, she says, taking the comb from me and running the wide teeth through my locks. She combs from the scalp, which I never do, tugging through snarls until my head tilts back and I wince. Her gaze meets mine in the mirror, revealing a shadowy place where her memories tumble over each other, clawing for purchase.
No, I won't say more. She's... my mother.
The look in her eyes soon clears. Becomes determination, razor-edged and glistening. The comb's raking gentles. It strokes through my hair, removing tangles in a thoughtful, methodical rhythm. Soft movement that keeps me stiff with fear.
Because I know.
She puts down the comb, then faces me. Runs her palms over my now detangled strands. She reaches under my waterfall of hair, her fingers curl into the flesh of my nape. Her nails press.
That's what started it. The lawn. It was in a terrible state. No clear edges, patches of daisies and dandelions. Even the moles had given up. It hadn't been cut for weeks.
'Can't you get away from watching that football for two minutes? Get out there and cut the grass?' Lucy felt like the wicked witch he was always accusing her of being.
'Gotta keep up with the action, haven't I? The boys'll be full of it when we get down the pub.' Wayne's eyes never left the screen.
'What about later, then?'
Wayne swung round. 'Look, Luce. I work all week. Need my downtime. Right?' He turned his back and resumed his shouting.
Lucy finished folding the washing. 'I work too, you know. You still expect meals on the table, clean shirts to wear, though, don't you?' She slammed the laundry basket down on the worktop.
'Oh, don't start. I don't need it.'
'Just go then. Get out. Find someone else stupid enough to put up with you.'
And that's what he'd done. Gone.
The grass still needed cutting though. Lucy hauled the mower out and tugged on the cord again and again, but nothing happened. She plumped down, head in hands and wept.
Sam waved as he walked past a couple of minutes later. 'Having trouble there, Lucy? Want some help?'
'You're a life saver, Sam.'
'Wayne not about then?'
'Gone. Football more important than me apparently.'
Sam showed her how to operate the machine. She decided she liked the hum of it; the rhythm of walking up and down; getting the perfect stripes. Better than Wayne's version of Wembley she laughed to herself.
Wayne sauntered up a week later with that stupid hangdog look of his, a wilting bunch of supermarket chrysanthemums in his hand. But it was Sam lying out in the garden in perfect alignment with Lucy.
"It's pronounced Err eye-va yo-coo-kill," I say
"Oriva yocokl?" he says.
"Almost. You've got to click your tongue at the end. Like this: yo-coo-click."
"Oriva yoco click," he says
I nod, smile. He'll never get it.
"What does it mean, anyway?" he says.
"Wasteland," I say.
"Makes sense."
He adjusts his scarf. His breath unfurls from his fur-lined hood and drifts away.
"Remind me why we're here again?" he says
"Fifteen years. Crystal. Whatever I want, remember?"
"I thought you'd choose a decanter, or champagne flutes. You know, something traditional. Something you could keep."
"How can you still not know me, after all this time?"
He crosses his arms, kicks ice off his boots. The crystals scatter into countless sparkling fragments.
"Maybe you've changed," he says.
"Maybe you haven't," I say.
Removing a glove, I squat down and press my bare hand into the snow piled at the crater's edge. Seven thousand feet beneath us, a lake of liquid magma lies dormant, waiting to erupt.
"I've had enough," he says. "Are you coming?"
As he walks away, I step onto the ice cap covering the volcano and stride toward the middle of the crater. Snow falls and melts on my skin.
Lying flat, I rest my cheek against the frozen crust and close my eyes.
Deep, deep within the mountain, the fire begins to stir.
Think of your ugliest friend…
No, not her - the other one."
His words had taken her completely by surprise. Her muscles tensed as if glued to a horror movie at the cinema. Sitting alone in the dark, feet welded to the sticky carpet, eyes on stalks, fumbling mindlessly for overpriced popcorn.
Mel had appeared out of nowhere in her mind's eye as soon as the words had spilled playfully from his thin lips. And 'the other one' was poor Chantelle, mainly on account of her crooked nose and lone yellow tooth.
Brian looked across the uncluttered desk, cheap veneer shining under the artificial lighting. His eyes were almost an identical shade of blue to his shirt - but the tie was slightly out of kilter with the rest of his appearance. Old-fashioned, as if liberated from an uncle's wardrobe for his first interview and never returned.
After an awkward, funeral-like silence, he continued.
"Sales, you see, is about getting into people's minds. Everyone has at least a couple of ugly friends, whether they'd like to admit it or not."
Laura cusped her hands together to prevent them shaking. This interview wasn't going as she'd expected. The stench of cheap furniture polish tainted her nostrils.
Sensing her shock, Brian spoke again.
"So, essentially, you'll be selling our new online service 'Genitaliapp' - think of it as a kind of moral compass for MPs' nether regions. It's wearable tech that gives them a chastening electric shock 'down there' when their hormone levels get too high. It retails at ten thousand but it's a bargain compared to the potential lost earnings caused by an extra-marital affair or illicit encounter with the oldest profession in the world. Any questions?"
Laura was sure that "WTF?" probably wasn't the right thing to ask. After what she hoped seemed like a considered pause rather than furiously treading water, she blurted out:
"So, they pay 10k to get zapped in the emmm…privates?"
"Bingo!" Brian proclaimed, as if he'd actually just triumphed in the popular ball-based game against the blue-rinse brigade. He could practically taste the success, over and above a mouthful of his cut-price aftershave from eBay. The odour best described as 'wet wood'.
Laura wasn't sure what to say next. She glanced at the notebook in front of her where she'd jotted down a bullshit response to "Where do you see yourself in five years' time?" It certainly wasn't flogging a penile punishment app to the randy rich who should know better.
She needed a way out, like a claustrophobic sumo wrestler wedged in to a lift stuck between floors on a hot summer's day.
"Think of the twenty third letter of the alphabet…
And now a metal device used to secure boats."
By the time the answers had sunk in, Brian was alone in the room. He could feel his blood boiling at how Laura's interview had ended. The unwelcome jolt in his groin the final insult as he realised the prototype still needed work.
Why can't you speak plainly? You told me you wanted to talk, with talk all caps in quotation marks like our relationship's in trouble. But now you start with a premise:
We think of the world as a series of 2s, when we really should see 3s. Believing 2 sides to every story forgets viewpoint 3, the (sometimes) objective narrator. Saying it takes 2 to tango neglects musician 3 providing a rhythm.
This feels like a lecture. Again you sit on our couch and speak around me, declaring your deep understanding of the world. What is there for me to say?
I could tell you that a number is divisible by 3 if the sum of its digits is divisible by 3. Take 24 (my age): 24 divided by 3 equals 8, while 2 plus 4 equals 6 divided by 3 equals 2. Or maybe you prefer 18 (months we've been together): 18 divided by 3 equals 6, while 1 plus 8 equals 9 divided by 3 equals 3 (there's your damn 3).
No, instead of math and science you speak about wordplay, though universal mechanics force us to perceive 3 dimensions. You expound about differing perspectives, yet fail to note just how many world religions share a reverence for 3 among their doctrines. And you make me listen to you analyze our relationship without once mentioning the 1 you're leaving me for, the 1 who makes this a 3.I just wanted to be part of a 2.
If it didn't say PLEASE DO NOT BEND on the envelope, she would always make a point of bending, creasing, folding if possible. Her 'bad back', wear and tear between the fourth and fifth vertebrae, meant that the folding sometimes hurt. But it was worth it.
Parcels could be shoved through the letter boxes, with the possibility of the brown paper tearing, with a smile on her lips, with the muttered, "I'll give you eBay".
She thought of herself as Gretel, wrestling control from her incompetent brother, when she left a trail of red elastic bands on paths, roads, occasionally garden gates. She would sometimes try to make it look accidental, haphazard, random if you will. She had absorbed the strange looks when people saw her practising in the sorting office.
Perhaps her favourite was keeping items in her bag if people looked out of windows expectantly. "No, sorry, Mr Noris, nothing today." Going round the corner, "And there'll be nothing for you tomorrow either."
On her last round, on her last day, she slipped her own redundancy notice (restructure…efficiency…thank you...service) through the final box. The bag and jacket offered more resistance, but she managed.
The day cousin Liz told me I had fat ankles I started hating myself. I was ten and she was fifteen. And she had kissed very boy on her street.
There she was, balancing perfectly in her stilettos, her honey tanned legs glowing in the soft evening light. She shimmered, all gold and white and pink while I took in her loveliness. My eyes swept from the swell of her bosom to the curve of her hips, down the length of her legs stopping to look at the beauty of those perfect ankles.
Her words buzzed around me like wasps, stinging me with their cruelty. Always the subject of ridicule: the shape of my body, the heaviness of my walk. I watched her giggle with the others, the bunch of flowers that she clutched in her slender hands. Her knuckles white and strained. But I smiled. It was okay. It really was. She didn't matter anymore.
The music started and I felt his arm link through mine. We walked slowly, passing friends and family, who looked at us through teary eyes and smiles. I felt her presence behind me, following me. This was my moment. The girl who always fell behind. The butt of all jokes. But today, I was the one who made it to the aisle, while cousin Liz hung behind, perfect in her perfectness. Only a twitch of envy marring that perfect face.


David LeFevre expanded his footprint in the South Bay with the debut of The Arthur J, which opened back at the start of June. A take on a retro-mod steakhouse, the restaurant represents the Chef's third partnership with the Simms family, the group behind Simmzy's and Tin Roof Bistro and part-owners of both M.B. Post and Fishing with Dynamite. In fact, the place is named after Mike and Chris' grandfather Arthur J. Simms, a restaurateur himself who founded The French Quarter in WeHo, The Kettle in MB, and most famously, Mimi's Cafe.
Arthur J takes over the former home of Michael Zislis' (Shade, Rock'n Fish, The Strand House, Rock & Brews) Circa, which had opened back at the start of 2013 with Octavio Becerra and Julian Cox running things. The interior's been redone by Julie Fisher and Rachel Crowl over at fc Studio, a Chicago-based firm that also penned FwD. The look they were going for is 1960s-era Palm Springs, so it's a walnut-clad, Mid-Century sort of affair, a beautiful one at that.
As for the menu, think an old school-new school take on steakhouse favorites, with updated versions of traditional starters, sides, and mains. Steaks are cooked on a wood-fired grill, and come with a full complement of optional sauces and toppings. Longtime LeFevre collaborator Jerry Garbus, meanwhile, heads up the beverage program. Cocktails definitely lean toward the classics as well, while a 200+ selection wine list (probably one of the best in the South Bay) is overseen by Sommelier Ryan O'Connor; beer is available from eight taps. Click for larger versions.
We managed to go through most of the cocktails, starting with this bourbon-based take on your good ol' swizzle. I got a lot of tangy, herby, astringent notes on this one, the booze peeking through in flashes while the finish seemed to be laced with anise.
Parker House rolls could've been butterier by my estimation, but any deficiencies there were made up for by that deviled ham, which ate like the salty, concentrated, spiced essence of the pig in spreadable form.
Very interesting. Lots of spice and almost a savory quality on the nose, while the taste was coffee for days, with a backing of distinct chocolate-y flavors.
Yellowtail came out fatty and properly fishy. Loved the herby, spicy notes here, with the avocado serving as a cooling element. Great crunch on those rice chips too.
A bangin' take on the Old Fashioned, with the boozy spice of the whiskey really working out with the zesty, almost floral qualities of sarsaparilla. Can't go wrong with that cherry, either.
Popovers were excellent: a bit eggy, a bit fluffy, and even better with that strawberry-impregnated butter.
Daiquiri duties were handled by this number, an intriguing twist on the O.G. drink. I found it very tart at first, with an herby quality, but the key was a sweet, almost Asian-y red fruit character that came through later.
I've always had a soft spot for IKEA's Swedish meatballs, so naturally I had to try this for comparison's sake. They were quite a bit gutsier in the taste department, with a great char component to boot. I found an appropriate level of sweetness from the preserves as well.
Just from the looks of it, you could probably tell that this was our sugariest cocktail of the night. That being said, it never went overbearing, presenting loads of tropical fruit flavors with a touch of spice and just a whisper of that rum.
This next steakhouse staple made a good showing for itself. Lovely springiness and bite on the actual beef, and its flavors were definitely traditional, but somehow more robust, more concentrated than usual.
Wow, talk about easy-drinking. Boatloads of refreshing, tangy citrus and sweet carrot on this one, with nary a peep from the Oxley.
Bone marrow was rich, fatty, sure, but the bacon-onion jam veered sweet, masking some of the inherent flavors of the star ingredient. I would've liked the parsley to have been more apparent, too.
Above we see one of the better Negronis that I've had: really classic at its core, bittersweet, viscous, but with seemingly more intensity, more perfume, more aromatics.
The salad was an unexpected hit. Gorgeous crunch and lightness from the lettuce, which made for a great vessel for the creamy, salty, tangy bleu flavors at play.
Our final cocktail was one of the tastiest takes on the margarita I've experienced. Just a focused heat throughout, with the smoke from the mezcal meshing seamlessly with the tart, cinnamon-y flavors abound.
At this point, we got into the steak, starting with this pretty impressive-looking specimen. It was definitely one of the better rib eyes that I've had in recent times, with that fantastic earthy depth that you get from dry aging joined by a good amount of char. Spot on texture, too.
All that beef called for an aggressive red to pair, and the 2013 Bedrock 'Pagani Ranch Heritage', Zinfandel Blend, Sonoma, California [$110] handled the task with aplomb. Nose of dark red fruit, spice, and a beautiful floral, almost violet aroma that became more apparent as the wine warmed. Taste followed, a smooth, yet tannic presentation with massive berry and pepper.
Corn was as creamy and as sweet as advertised, and well-textured to boot, with a delightful hit of heat on the back end.
NY Strip [$52.00] | 16 Oz.
The strip steak didn't disappoint either, a timeless preparation that showed off the right texture, the right amount of caramelization, and about as much flavor as you could ask for from a non-dry aged cut.
Asparagus came in meaty little stalks, all crisp and bitter, but certainly taken up a notch by that runny egg.
Sauces weren't necessary, but came included with the steak. We opted for the Creamy Horseradish, Chimichurri (my fav of the three thanks to its sheer brightness), and Black Truffle Butter.
Skirt [$32.00] | 10 Oz.
Round number two brought out the skirt. I found it very flavorful, but a different kind of flavorful than with the cuts above--sharper, more austere somehow. Texturally though, it was chewier than the preceding steaks, but that's pretty much to be expected.
Bucking convention, we ended things with bubbly, the NV Camille Savès 'Montagne de Reims' Rosé Brut Grand Cru, Champagne, France [$150]. It was a delicious sparkler, very well balanced, with lots of strawberry and lemon countered by plenty of acidity.
The mashed potatoes were deeply satisfying, especially when doused with some of that included gravy. However, they weren't as buttery as some others I've had, so don't necessarily come in expecting Robuchon-level pomme purée.
Japanese Wagyu Beef Strip Loin [$36.00/oz] | 4 Oz.
We had to get a few ounces of the wagyu, natch. Nice charring and crust on this one, which worked wonders as a counterpoint to the melty nature of the beef. However, the steak probably could've used a bit more time on the grill.
Spinach arrived appropriately creamy, but I appreciated how the astringent, bitter quality of the veggie still shined though.
Our second set of sauces comprised the sour 'n' salty Yuzu Koshu Butter and sweet, liver-y Foie Maple Butter.
Curiously, there's no written dessert menu here (it's recited by your server), and we were instead presented with a list of after-dinner beverages. Click for a larger version.
Arthur J's version of a banana cream pie was a favorite of mine: creamy, nutty, with a great crust and pervasive notes of banana all over the place.
Tropical: Guava in-yo-face, followed by banana on the finish.
Rum Raisin: Not too much rum, but loved the tart raisins mixed in.
Coconut: A light, breezy sort of coconut sweetness.
We ended on a strong note. Just a great interaction between the strawberry, whipped cream, biscuit, and zesty sorbet.
The Arthur J was no doubt one of the better steakhouse experiences that I've had. The food perhaps has a retro inspiration, but there's definitely modernity, finesse at play here. LeFevre's batting three for three so far in Manhattan Beach, so I'm curious as to what he's got planned next. I'm sort of hoping for a return to a fine dining type of place, something small, intimate, tasting menu-focused, but we shall see.
that tomahawk looks small! is it really enough for two??


Where do you start with regular rides in Grampian? All the local cycle clubs and groups organise regular rides, as do a few of the local shops.
Most clubs and groups have a weekend ride, however the bigger the club the more rides they are likely to put on. For example, the Deeside Thistle have more than a dozen rides every week - some at the weekend, some mid week. So if you are looking for a regular ride to join in with, then check out our page on local Cycling Clubs. Hooking up with a club or group is a sure way of getting out regularly.
Traditionally, local bike shops have either led rides, or been the meeting place for rides. This tradition is still alive with some of the shops locally e.g. Bennachie Bike Bothy. So if you are not a club type of person, but still want to ride with others then have a look at our list of local bike shops, give them a call and see what they offer.
Below we have only listed a couple of the regular rides that are on offer locally. We have picked these ones as they offer more of a "way in" to cycling and wont be as daunting for the new comer to two wheels.
Our list is not exhaustive - if you know of any other regular rides in the Aberdeen, Aberdeenshire or Moray area that visitors to the Cycle Grampian website may be interested in then please let us know. Contact details are on the link at the bottom of the page.
The Aberdeen branch of the Cyclists' Touring Club organise easy paced rides aimed at beginners or those who have not been in the saddle for a while. The free leisurely rides visit various places of interest such as ancient cairns, march stones, churches, bird hides, and local beauty spots. Every ride is led by experienced cycle leaders. The rides are on Saturday or Sundays and depart from various points around Aberdeen city e.g. Duthie Park (at the pond off Riverside Drive), Hazelhead Park (Groats Road entrance), Seaton Park (at the car park on Don St.).
Starting in April 2019, Outfit Moray will be organising and leading a free weekly social bike ride for adults. The rides will be on roads and pathways with coffee and cake stops a must. These are for all levels of cyclist, with the aim to give you the skills and confidence to get out on a bike and enjoy all that Moray has to offer. The rides depart from Outfit Moray at 10am, and will return by 12:30pm. Don't worry about fitness - you just need the desire to ride a bike. Outfit Moray can even provide bikes!
Further details available from the Outfit Moray website.
Staring in May 2019, Outfit Moray will be organising and leading a free fortnightly family biking group. This is ideal fro families whether your children are able to ride themselves or are in a bike seat or on a tag along Leaving from Cooper Park the ride will use local paths to uncover Moray's hidden gems. All rides will be led by a qualified guide.


It was late afternoon in Sausalito and the sun was at its strongest, streaking the bay with light.
After a daylong bike ride through San Francisco, across the Golden Gate Bridge and down a winding road to this coastal town, I was ready to rest. I rode along the water until I spotted a wide green field dotted with couples and families – the perfect place to collapse.
I set my bike down on an empty patch of grass near a couple who looked to be in their mid-20s. She was Irish, he was British. From the high-pitched, exaggerated way she laughed I guessed they were in the honeymoon phase of a new relationship.
Using my backpack as a pillow, I closed my eyes and drifted into that kind of half-sleep only caused by physical exhaustion. Their voices turned distant, blending in with the sounds of boats and children playing. But then something shook me awake.
Did they just get engaged? Within minutes of me lying down next to them, sweaty, nearly passed out? I couldn't believe it. Clearly I was wrong in thinking they were a new couple.
I caught a flash of light on her hand. This was like a movie – something better than a movie – unfolding before me, and I couldn't look away.
"You know when you'd point to those rings in the windows? I know every single thing about those rings. How much they cost, what they're named, everything." He spoke quickly, emotions cascading through his chest and changing the pitch of his voice.
"You do? Oh, bless you," said the girl, kissing him.
It was obvious he was the practical, stoic one in the relationship, while she was the bubbly free spirit who laughed just as much as she spoke.
There were no photographers hiding in bushes or trails of rose petals leading to a pretty view. She didn't shriek. I don't think he even got down on one knee. The proposal was natural and beautiful and I felt honored to be the only one to have witnessed it.
I wondered if they knew I was eavesdropping, but I was so close, how could they not? A few minutes later they moved to a bench just a few feet in front of me – now I could hear every word of their conversation.
"Of course I do!" she said, leaning her head on his shoulder.
The sun started to weaken and the scent of baking bread drifted over from the bayside Italian restaurants. The park was clearing out. I knew I should get the next ferry back to San Francisco but wanted to say something to the couple, congratulate them.
When I saw them taking a selfie I walked over.
"Yes!" exclaimed the girl. "Look at it!" She held out her left hand. She seemed eager to share the good news, as if telling someone would solidify it as real.
I shook my head and smiled.
"Oh, you poor thing," the girl said, cupping his cheek. Then she gave me her phone and I took a series of photos of them in front of the bay.
"How do they look?" I asked.
"They're perfect," the girl said, smiling as she flipped through the shots.
I congratulated them again and walked towards the ferry pier to get my ticket. The wait would be over an hour, I was told, since so many bikers had come to Sausalito that day. By the time I got on a ferry the sun was setting gloriously over the water, and I found a seat on the upper deck. I took out my notebook to write down what I'd just seen.
Then, from a distance, I spotted the couple. They weren't speaking now, just leaning into the ferry railing and one another. They stared out at the water as it turned darker and darker, the day's brilliance clasped safely in their hands.
Saturday morning run through Central Park. It was my first time visiting as a resident, not just a tourist, and jogging up the path to 81st Street without any agenda was glorious.
Sunday afternoon I wandered around the West Village, checking out the cafés (I have yet to find my go-to place.) It was cold, but I managed to take off my gloves to capture a few shots.
The Village is full of rich reds, browns and greens, and noticed how yellow taxis stick out here more than other places in the city.
This West Village fountain is a refuge for the city's weary pigeons.
Our Lady of Pompeii Church on Carmine Street, framed by trees still looking bare and wintery. Hopefully spring is coming soon!


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How The Squid Sisters Live Concert Worked
The youngest of three sisters, she showed prodigious musical ability while. With her instrument back in working order, Clara consented to perform at Nadia's memorial concert in 1989, six years.
SWORD COAST ADVENTURER'S GUIDE. CREDITS BIBLIOGRAPHY – s book was 'a collaboration between Wizards of the Coast and C-een Ronin Publishing. Members of the Green Ronin creative ea rn are marked with an asterisk below.
Although it's unclear if Bublé's wife and family will be on-hand to watch the show live, they are his. when she attended one of his concerts with her sister and a male actor friend.
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And how much you like this one will depend on your level of fandom for Björk but also on what you judge to be the major function of the concert film—to be a film? To be a live album accompanied by.
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Until he sold his Cleveland-based company Belkin Productions to the company that would become Live Nation in 2001, Fran Belkin's husband, Jules, was one of the top concert producers. weren't that.
T he year 2006 was a boom year in a number of different respects. Production reached its highest level in a decade and a half, with 108 films released in theaters, and many more which were waiting for release at the end of the year.
String quartet performs at the Cole The Peterson Concert series at the Greenwich Library continues on Sunday with a live musical performance. designer Ralph Lauren. Sole Sisters raises funds to.
Speaking during an Instagram Live, she added: "It was a very weird name.but I love it. It just didn't work for her." Kendall Jenner has. Sources told TMZ that he is flying back in between his.
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The charismatic Zander still boasts his divinely Lennonesque voice, the cartoonish Nielsen still delivers fast, flashy guitar work. Tom Petersson is steady. Me Deadly" and still packs a wallop in.
Animalympics on DVD 1980: voices by Billy Crystal, Gilda Radner, Harry Shearer, This Animated Movie broadcasts the First Animal Olympic Games through the fictional ZOO television network. The Games are a combination of both Summer and Winter Olympic events. The Complete Arabian Knights. Arabian Knights on DVD 1967: the Complete 18 shows on two seperate tapes
What Is The Performing Forces In An Opera Music 250 Exam 2 Thursday May 1 Review Sheet. (sacred/secular, listening/dance) What genres serve these functions? What forms are used? What kind of performing forces are found? What textures are used? What are the style characteristics of the music?. opera. concerto. recitative. sonata for piano or other instruments w/piano. aria. Most of the force behind
Mythology has it that trolls are giant supernatural beings that live deep in the. You may like: Free concerts you don't want to miss during the Kentucky Derby FestivalDambo channels that childhood.
When Was The First Musical Instrument Made Best Flyers Musical Theatre Ever Created Woman Singing Gonna Let You Get It On Song Ii Deluxe Edition Unknown Mortal Orchestra Capcom has released the Tokyo Game Show 2018 trailer, new screenshots, and announced a Deluxe Edition for Devil May Cry 5. Customize option to change (available after starting mission 2). Battle. The new music
Kill City Blues Audiobook Torrent Torrent Best Flyers Musical Theatre Ever Created Woman Singing Gonna Let You Get It On Song Ii Deluxe Edition Unknown Mortal Orchestra Capcom has released the Tokyo Game Show 2018 trailer, new screenshots, and announced a Deluxe Edition for Devil May Cry 5. Customize option to change (available after starting mission 2). Battle. The new music
River Spirit's latest, Me I Fall, came out at the end of January, celebrated with a concert at the Outer. naturally extend to Reynolds and her sisters. Steadman, meanwhile, got into recording as a.
He stepped out and threw his arms around his sister in tears. The 44-year-old is one of about. He keeps a list of things he wants to see in person — a basketball game, ballroom dancing, a concert.
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Robin worked at Flatiron Theatre on University Hill and Kathy joined the team at the Fox Theatre, which now operates as one of the area's most notable live music venues. The Beecks see the.
Produced by Steven Spielberg, Animaniacs was a revival of an old show concept: a collection of cartoon shorts in a half-hour kids' show. Rather than recycling or remaking old theatrical shorts, Animaniacs relied on original stories featuring original characters (though it did indulge in a bit of.
SOUTH PLAINFIELD – The Fiftieth Annual South Plainfield All-District Music Festival took place on Thursday, March 7th at 6p.m. The three hour concert featured the chorus. "Without the work of.
Bluesfest doesn't usually collaborate with Live Nation. does the public service work alongside the music industry? Once a year actually, when the Canadian Union of Public Employees hosts the Rock.
Both live and work around New York City. They showed up at every recital and concert that we performed. Their support was also monetary — it's a real financial and logistical commitment.
Jumpin' Jack Flash. It was a hell of a lecture. "Out of Your Mindscape," Jack had called it on the posters he'd put up all over town. The posters had a picture of a guy thinking a thought balloon of himself thinking a thought balloon of himself thinking etcetera and ad infinitum.
Wheel Of Music Jimmy Fallon Tonight Show Jimmy challenges Alessia Cara to a game of random musical impressions like Ariana Grande singing "Skidamarink" and Lorde singing "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep. " Mar 13, 2019. Jimmy Fallon's 'Wheel of Musical Impressions' skit is inspiring a new. all of Fallon's clever celebrity musical segments on The Tonight Show. Sep 18, 2017. Top 5 Wheel
The cast also includes Susan Parrick as Lane, the doctor who hires Matilde; Lorrie Loughney as Ana, a patient with whom Lane's husband, also a doctor, has an affair; and Kelly Kapacs as Virginia, Lane.
We are not afraid to live by our values. dreams and put in the hard work to achieve them. To cherish family and embrace God, or whatever higher power they believe in. To forge deep, meaningful.
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The following is an archival list of the videos that were available on the Sesame Street Video Player sometime between 2007 and 2016. This list is comprised of those that were labeled as "current" segments (after the 25th season ). See also Sesame Street Video Player: Classic Clips.
Her love for the Gargamel runs so deep that she took a day off from work in January when tickets for the first. He is a legend and I love him," she said. "I live for a good concert and having seen.
One of the major highlights of this new record for me was getting a chance to work with the McCrary. Watch McConnell and the McCrary Sisters perform "Shaky Bridges" live in the studio and see.
Gideon: From the beginning, even before we were Princess, it was never just a concert. We were always pushing. O'Neill: They're a trio of three sisters. They're friends of ours and they live in.
News archive. Home > ; 2016 > ; May Friday 27 May 2016 Victory over the health insurers that reject claims for routine operations after watchdog rules against giant firm
Singing In The Rain Original Broadway Cast Roald Dahl's delicious tale, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, is now playing in Sydney. It's a delectable treat featuring songs from the original film, including Pure Imagination, The Candy Man and I've Got a Golden Ticket, alongside a brand new, toe-tapping and ear-tickling new score. Returns to the Bourbon Room in the role which earned

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


On September 18, 2018, the Department of Veterans Affairs ("VA") published its final rule for needs-based benefits, including the VA pension program that assists many of our clients with long-term care related expenses. The new rules, which will become effective on October 18, 2018, establish net worth, asset transfer, and medical expense deduction requirements, and further address various other issues raised in the over 850 comments received by the VA during the public comment period that ended March 24, 2015.
I will be addressing the changes over the course of several newsletters, and anticipate that our first seminar on the change will occur in October 2018.
For the most part, these rules, all of which will be explained more thoroughly in the upcoming newsletters, were adopted as originally proposed.
The VA will not review asset transfers that occurred before the effective date of the final rule and the VA will not apply the new medical expense deduction rules to current claimants unless they change facilities or in-home care providers. Furthermore, if a claimant is receiving a pension on the effective date of the final rule, then the claimant will continue to receive benefits although his or her net worth exceeds the net worth limit established under the final rule, unless the claimant otherwise loses the pension. A claimant with a pending application will not be denied benefits, provided the claimant's net worth meets the new limit established under the final rule.
Hook Law Center has been alerting the public of the proposed rule for nearly three and a half years, and has encouraged individuals to take action. The window of opportunity is closing – if you are a current client working on a plan for VA pension, we recommend that you continue to work diligently with your attorney to finalize the plan before the end of this month.
Hook Law Center: Kit Kat, what's the latest in animal-assisted therapy?
Kit Kat: Well, the big news is that it is no longer just limited to dogs. Not that dogs aren't great, but Pet Partners, the US' largest registry of therapy animals, has a database of 13,000 animals. 94% are dogs, but they also have 200 cats and 20 llamas, according to C. Annie Peters, the organization's chief executive. Not every cat can qualify to become a therapy animal she says, because "they need to have a high tolerance for strangers and hugs to become a registered therapy cat. There are regular grooming and hygiene requirements, and they have to enjoy getting in a car." One cat who did qualify is named Xeli, who works at Denver International Airport. Another is the cat who visits sick kids at Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake City. Nevertheless, cats as well as rabbits and miniature horses are being deployed in this growing field.
Posted on Monday, September 24th, 2018. Filed under Senior Law News.


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One, Peter Cornell, 64, of Port Charlotte, Fla., was killed in the collision. He was originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, and was traveling with two friends from his home state.
Thomas Clark, 62, of Munith, Mich., and Joseph Muscato, 60, of Grass Lake, Mich., were also struck from behind by the truck traveling east on Highway 20 near Dawson and thrown into a ditch. Clark reportedly was hospitalized in the intensive care unit with a neck injury but not paralysis. Muscato was treated and released.
According to news sources, the three began their bicycle tour last year when they set off from Prudhoe Bay, traveling some 2,400 miles through Alaska and the Yukon and British Columbia to a destination in Alberta.
Earlier this year, they returned to Alberta where they started the final leg of a 3,225-mile bike trip to Key West. The three were less than 700 miles from the finish when they were struck.
Our condolences to Cornell's friends and family, and we wish a speedy recovery to his two friends.
More information here, here, here and here.


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Posts Tagged 'Marisa Miakonda Cummings'
EARS TO THE GROUND
Posted in HISTORIC LANDSCAPES, HISTORY, NATIONAL PARK SERVICE, PLANNING, PRESERVATION, RESEARCH, tagged Albert LeBeau, American Indian Places: A Historical Guidebook, and Parks, anthropologist, archaeologists, Big Sioux River, Bistate Park, Blood Run, Brenda Williams, Burial Mounds, Cheyenne River Sioux, Doug Hofer, Effigy Mounds National Monument, fish, Good Earth State Park, Iowa, Iowa Burials Protection Act of 1976, Iowa Department of Natural Resources, Iowa Tribe of Kansas and Nebraska, Ioway, Jim Henning, Kansa, Lance Foster, landscape architect, Landscape Architecture, landscape design, Marisa Miakonda Cummings, master plan, Missouria, Mounds, National Historic Landmark, National Historic Preservation Act, National Historic Preservation Fund, NATIONAL PARK SERVICE, Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, Native Americans, Omaha, Oneota, Osage, Otoe, Ponca, prairie, Quinn Evans Architects, Railroad, Randy Teboe, South Dakota, South Dakota Game, The Indians of Iowa, THPO, trail, Tribal Historic Preservation Officer, Winnebago, Winnebago Tribe of Nebraska on September 26, 2017| 2 Comments »
BY TIMOTHY A. SCHULER / PHOTOGRAPHY BY LOUISE JOHNS
Three hundred years ago, Blood Run was a hub of the Great Plains. The landscape architect Brenda Williams is helping guide tribal efforts to protect what's left, mostly by listening.
FROM THE AUGUST 2017 ISSUE OF LANDSCAPE ARCHITECTURE MAGAZINE.
On a cold, blustery morning last November, I followed an abandoned railroad grade to the South Dakota and Iowa state line. I had two maps in front of me—one an annotated paper printout, a collage of colors and lines overlaid on an old topo map, and the other Google Maps, open on my phone, my blue dot tacking southwest. I wasn't lost. I was on a trail that did not yet exist.
The route, unmarked and at points choked by trees, had been outlined to me a few days earlier by Brenda Williams, ASLA, a landscape architect and director of preservation planning at Quinn Evans Architects in Madison, Wisconsin. Williams had recently led the development of a master plan for this area, an important but not widely known archaeological site known as Blood Run. The old railway was the proposed arrival sequence.
Typically, the few visitors who came to Blood Run, which became a National Historic Landmark in 1970, parked at the top of a bluff and followed a path down to the Big Sioux River, the state border. But Williams had been explicit: Take the railroad grade. Rather than start high, Williams wanted visitors to begin in the valley, to park and walk along the creek that gives the area its name before reaching the earthen mounds that are some of the site's more visible cultural and historic remnants. It was, in part, a practical decision: The abandoned railroad provided a level path all the way from the main road to the mound grouping. But mostly it was about being immersed in the place, bringing people into the site (more…)
AUGUST LAM: BEATING THE HEAT
Posted in BOOKS, CITIES, CLIMATE, HISTORIC LANDSCAPES, HISTORY, MINDS, NEW YORK CITY, OFFICE, PEOPLE, RECREATION, RESILIENCE, TECH, THE BACK, WATER, tagged Anacostia River, Antarctic, August, BIM, BIM for Landscape, biography, Blood Run, Brenda Williams, Delaware, icebergs, Infrastructure, Iowa, James Rose, Lawrence Halprin, Louise Johns, Marisa Miakonda Cummings, Mathews Nielsen, MPFP, North Dakota, Omaha, Randall's Island, Starr Whitehouse, Timothy A. Schuler, tribal landscapes, Washington D.C., wetland park, Zaria Forman on August 1, 2017| 1 Comment »
"In our language, we have a word; it means, 'They have no ears.' They don't listen, and that's what was happening."
—Marisa Miakonda Cummings, Omaha tribe member
Brenda Williams, ASLA, has been working on tribal landscapes for 20 years, but it's what she's learned not to do that defines her reputation: Talk first. Her work is a lesson in when and how to listen, and what to do, and not do, with what you hear. Timothy A. Schuler follows Williams as she facilitates a new master plan for Blood Run, a sacred site carved by the state lines of South Dakota and Iowa and years of exploitation. The photojournalist Louise Johns documents the land and the people.
If you don't live in New York City, you can be forgiven for not knowing Randall's Island. It's not a destination park like Governors Island or a national monument like Ellis Island. It's where the city's residents go to play games—right up against a sewage treatment plant and some of the city's most monumental infrastructure. After years of neglect, the playing fields and recreational amenities get a jolt of energy from MPFP, Starr Whitehouse, and Mathews Nielsen, among others.
Also in this issue: A new wetland park for Wilmington, Delaware, has layers of challenge. Jeanne Haffner explores Lawrence Halprin's unbuilt plans for the Anacostia River in Washington, D.C.; the artist Zaria Forman gives us a preview of her new series on Antarctic icebergs; and the first biography of the landscape architect James Rose asks as many questions as it answers. The full table of contents for August can be found here.
As always, you can buy this issue of Landscape Architecture Magazine at more than 700 bookstores, including many university stores and independents, as well as at Barnes & Noble. You can also buy single digital issues for only $5.25 at Zinio or order single copies of the print issue from ASLA. Annual subscriptions for LAM are a thrifty $59 for print and $44.25 for digital. Our subscription page has more information on subscription options.
Keep an eye out here on the blog, on the LAM Facebook page, and on our Twitter feed (@landarchmag), as we'll be posting August articles as the month rolls out.
Credits: "Game On," Sahar Coston-Hardy; "Ears to the Ground," Louise Johns; "Wrong Side of the River," Doug Baker, University of Delaware; "Getting Paid," Dorothee Brand/Belathée Photography; "Traces of Self-Exile," Courtesy James Rose Center; "BIM There, Done That," Patrik Argast and O|CB; overlay by LAM.


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2. 11. A segment so articulated. 3. 11. or adj. [rare] (of a segment) Articulated in a position which is further back than alveolar but further forward than palato-alveolar. 4. n. or adj. [obsolete] A former synonym for palato-alveolar. NOTE: TI1C last two senses alveolo-palatal should be avoided. lrelvi~u'prel~t~ll n. or adj. 1. [rare] A cover term including both palato-alveolar and alveolo-palatal. 2. See palatoalveolar. NOTE: This second usc, while not rare. is ohjectionahle. alveopalatal /'rembldlpend~nsi/n.
Articulator /0: 'tIkjulelt~/ n. Any specific part of the vocal tract which may be involved in the articulation of a segment, particularly a consonant. See active articulator, passive articulator. /'mDd~l/ n. A model of the representation of speech sounds which posits a close relation between phonetics and Articulator Model 33 articulatory perturbation phonology, in that it represents the actions of each individual articulator - each movable part of the speech organs - by suitable distinctive features.
Appeal j;}'pi:1/ 11. 1. One of the three planes posited for phonology~ with the function of treating such "expressive' phenomena as exaggerated lengthening and exaggerated pitch differences. Cf. appendix 30 expression, representation. 2. In the study of intonation, a label occasionally applied to certain highly marked patterns with some kind of ~expressive' function. /~'pendIks/ n. (pI. appendices /~'pendlsi:z/) In some analyses of (especially English) syllable structure, a consonantal segment which appears in syllable-final position following another consonant, such as the final consonants in mind, begged, looked, heds, fox, width, strange and drinks.


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Use this section to search for questions asked in the States Assembly. You can search by keyword, date, and also by selecting who asked or answered the question.
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Title: What arrangements the States of Jersey police have to allay a sense of grievance from people who have been detained and/or questioned and subsequently exonerated from unsubstantiated allegations of crimes
Question type: Oral
Asked by: Bob Hill BEM
Answered by: Minister for Home Affairs
Question date: 04/12/2007
Title: Is there a formal policy regarding succession planning within the department for which the Minister is responsible
Asked by: Roy Le Hérissier


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With summer here it's the perfect time to get active and explore outside the vehicle. Let us craft your next adventure -...
7 Must-Do's for the Active Explorer on Safari
Don't get us wrong, game drives are a hallmark of the safari experience, but there's more to safari than only viewing wildlife from the vehicle. When you're some place at jaw-dropping beautiful as the wilds of Africa, getting out to stretch your legs can be the best way to connect and explore in nature. Depending on your adventure level, we've put together seven of our favorite activities that let you experience Africa's captivating landscapes and wildlife from new perspectives.
1. Walking Safaris
Walking safaris are a great alternative for seasoned safari-goers and/or clients who can't sit still. Depending on your interests and fitness level, we work with you to identify the best camps and regions for a safari on foot. From a few hours to a few days, there are various options for exploring the bush on a walking safari. Activities like fly camping or mobile safaris offer a short overnight or two. A full walking safari circuit offers a more comprehensive experience that allows you to truly slow down and appreciate the micro environment – the sights, sounds and smells of the bush. A walking safari in the Serengeti offers a fresh perspective of this renowned area. Be sure to take a moment at the top of one of the many kopjes to reflect as the sun sets over the plains on another day in the bush. Another great option is Zambia, with overnights at intimate tented camps for the real safari experience. The camps are located on the river for additional activities and opportunities to explore the various ecosystems. This is your chance to relax and reconnect with the natural world and its incredible wildlife.
Walking with Maasai at Tortilis Camp.
2. Boating and Mokoro
Combine a water-based camp with more traditional safari camps for the complete wildlife experience. In the morning, motorboat through the depths of the Okavango Delta in Botswana to discover new wildlife – hippos, crocodiles, the sitatunga or marshbuck, etc. Take a break in the afternoon to fish. Then, slow things down in the late afternoon/early evening in a mokoro, a traditional dugout canoe. Propelled through the shallows, you sneak up on swamp-dwelling creatures, and the occasional elephant quenching its thirst. It is a totally different experience than game drives in a vehicle. In some ways, you feel closer and more in tune with the surroundings. It's also preferable for birders as the mokoro is a quiet way to come upon birdlife. The Heronry at Kanana in Botswana is one of the best experiences for birders and non-birders, alike – what a sight to behold! Like the mokoro in Botswana, canoe through the deeper channels of the Zambezi River in Zambia, where you encounter crocodiles, hippos and elephants, to name but a few. It's a thrilling way to experience wildlife from a fresh perspective.
Mokoro outing at Xudum Okavango Delta Lodge.
3. Snorkel and Scuba Dive
For an even more active exploration of Africa's waters, snorkel and scuba dive to uncover life below the surface. Extensions to Lake Malawi at Kaya Mawa or further afield, like Mozambique, Seychelles or Zanzibar offer pristine waters to explore before or after a more traditional safari. These areas, rich in marine life, are active and exciting options for both beginners and expert divers to enjoy. Navigate coral reefs as colorful fish swim all around you. For really adventurous travelers or clients short on time, shark cage diving or freediving, respectively, in Cape Town offer exciting alternatives to a more complicated island extension.
Diving Rocktail Beach Camp, South Africa
4. Quad Bike
Get out of the safari vehicle and into another… Quad bikes or ATVs are a faster means of exploring an area. Quad bikes are great in areas with dunes and open spaces, like Sossusvlei in Namibia, with the most spectacular landmarks like its red dunes, white salt pan and Deadvlei; or Botswana's Makgadikgadi Salt Pans, one of the largest salt flats in the world. It's a fast paced and high energy activity so you're not seeing tons of wildlife unless you really slow down. But it's a super fun and makes you feel like a kid again as you explore fascinating landscapes. The Sahara Desert in Morocco is an especially gorgeous region to explore on quad bikes.
Quad biking at the salt pans near Camp Kalahari.
5. Mountain Bike
Trade in four wheels for two: mountain bike excursions in Africa are an active and fun transport. For short rides, travel from village to village in Victoria Falls; or for a longer excursion, bike through National Parks like Safari Specialist Pearl Jurist-Schoen in Lake Manyara. South Africa's scenic Garden Route is another option for beginners, traveling from the forests of Knysna through small towns and beaches. For serious bikers, the popular annual Cape Town Cycle Tour Race, with over 35,000 participants, takes place along the Garden Route as well.
Bicycling with wildlife at Ol Donyo Lodge.
6. Horseback Ride
Return to the classic African safaris, with a horseback ride across the savannah. Half-day or full day rides provide beginners to expert riders unique opportunities to encounter Africa's wildlife. More recently, permanent stables opened in the world-famous Maasai Mara, with access to unparalleled wildlife and the Great Migration. For more experienced riders, a multi-night horseback journey, with some truly wonderful guides, is on offer. Harken back to the earliest safari-goers and scan the horizon in search of elephant and wildebeest. It's a real 'trip'! On horseback, you call the shots, where your trusty steed leads you. You don't need to be 'fit' but don't underestimate the wear on the body, especially if you're new to the saddle and opting for extended overnight excursions.
Exploring from Lewa Wilderness.
7. Mountain Trek
From Kilimanjaro and Volcanoes National Park in the east, to Odzala-Kokoua in the west, to the Drakensberg in the south, Africa is home to tremendous mountains. Serious hikers spend days trekking uphill for the breathtaking views and unforgettable natural encounters along the way. Not to mention the undeniable sense of accomplishment! The experience is almost spiritual. Trek through the jungles of the DRC, Congo or Rwanda to come face-to-face with families of gorillas. It's a life changing experience! Later, summit the Nyiragongo Volcano in the DRC and make camp under the Africa's night sky – it's stargazing heaven.
Taking on Kilimanjaro's Barranco Valley.
Call or email us to start planning a safari that gets you out of the car and in tune with Africa's wilderness!
RELATED: Best Properties for a Horseback Safari