literature
Travel literature includes guide books, travel memoirs and the curious experiences that happen when you seek adventure.
The Little Black Book
My existence is a small one, I have a hard cover, and my body consists of endless pages. I am a little black book that has a request of my writers in the front cover. That request is that they ink my blank spaces with their story of how abundance presents itself in their life, and what they do with it. I am passed from person to person, travelling the world to weave a collective tale of human greed and generosity. I can describe the human experience through feeling stories written on my pages. I want to know how different people think, and I want to change the lives of people I know will change the world for the better. The people who have a spirit as expansive as the universe. They are the ones who change the course of time. I have felt the tales of an elderly man who lived out his dreams and built a mountain village, a young woman who was a single parent living in New York city who used every cent to send her child to university. I have felt words written by people who used abundance to build castles, save charities, cure blindness, save the endangered Jaguar in Panama, build islands off the coast of Madagasca, recreate the intricate jewellery made by ancient Egypt Empires, build ships that shadow the titanic, start movements to fight for Indigenous People’s rights…
By Isabel Corkill5 years ago in Wander
Little Black Book
Little Black Book I am a retired single woman who travels moderately to visit my children. Before all departures I check the front compartment for the nicely tucked barf bag. Funny, but you never know when turbulence is going to hit, again and again! It was a Sunny afternoon, and I anticipated a calm flight. However, I did check in the front seat compartment for my trusty bag. I looked in and saw a small Moleskin Black notebook tucked tightly in the bottom. I reached in and pulled it out. I looked around at everyone putting their bags in the overhead compartments and settling in for the flight. I looked to see if I was in the correct seat, thinking I sat in the wrong one. As everyone was settling in, I took it upon myself to open it. Inside was a cashier check for $20,000! It was a blank one at that! My heart started racing, I looked up to see if anyone was watching me. I moved the check aside and found a list of people’s names and addresses. Next to each person’s name was a little information about them. One said James Doran of St. Paul. The next Rebecca Anderson also of St. Paul. The list had 8 names and different locations.
By Kari Malewska5 years ago in Wander
Uncovered
I feel the cold down my spine as I enter. The chill, the tension, it all rests here to haunt me as I make my steps within. I keep telling myself that exploration is a good thing, uncovering whatever lies in your path. And yet, this strange, lonely bookshop took it to a whole other level.
By Davion Moore5 years ago in Wander
Silence
I was nine years old when the seven-seven bombings happened. I don’t really remember anything about that day. My family didn’t personally know anyone who died. There was one thing, though, that we all took from it, etched into our heads like an unspoken rule: An abandoned bag on a train is no longer just a mild inconvenience to its owner, it’s a genuine cause for widespread panic. Any other time I would have pulled the alarm immediately, but something about the circumstances made me hesitate…
By Ingrid Allan5 years ago in Wander
The Little Black Book
Penelope Rose was just like any other twenty-something. She had an average job at MedTekk, answering phone calls about insurance coverage. She had a few close friends that she would hang out with on the weekends. The oddest thing about her was her long-lost father, who disappeared one night to never return. She sat with her headset on at MedTekk, typing up a work-up of coverage from a patient who had just called. It was reaching 2pm. She flipped her long chestnut braid over her thin shoulder as she placed her hand on a picture of her father that was pinned to her wall. He was of average height with shaggy brown hair, a very trimmed beard and was always smiling his crooked smile, as if he was always up to something exciting. Penelope's heart seized at the thought of him. He had vanished when she was eight years old, and she never learned if he had actually run off or something more sinister happened to him. She still had all these questions racing through her head. Had he left her on purpose? Where was he now? Did he have another family? She sighed. All that was behind her now, and she should move on, but it's hard when you don't get closure. She grew up in the foster care system until she was eighteen, then moved into her own apartment. She sat in her cubicle, staring at a bright blue screen in a daze thinking back on the last time she had seen her father, when the phone rang. Now, this was typical for her job, but this particular phone call was not.
By Cassandra Andresky5 years ago in Wander
The little black book, a small window of opportunity
It seemed to be some kind of avant-garde art project that had captured the world's attention. Across every continent, people were reporting the mysterious appearance and disappearance of a little black book and how it changed their lives irrevocably.
By Asia Johnson5 years ago in Wander
Deep In the Withers
As the smoke dissipated, it became clear that what was left standing was not a man or even human. With the pinpoints of light from distant stars, he could just make out the slick glistening of something wet. Fixed in a trance of concentration, trying to bring form to the darkness, the glow of green eyes distorted from full spheres to slits peering back at him.
By Alison Forrest 5 years ago in Wander
A Trip to the Beyond
The beguiling image moved towards me, as though a shadow with no grits and guts followed. In the clammy tapered alley, I could hear my heart pulsating my eardrums hurriedly. The eerie looking graffiti on the dirt-splattered walls seemed to form a nefarious canopy over my head, under the full moon night. My eyes were wide and astute, I could feel my unearthly deep breaths turning chillier as they hit the freshly wet brick walls, making my throat as dry as a bone. I took the hardest and loudest gulp I had ever taken and gathered the courage to move away from this daunting imagery. The shadow strutted closer…
By Akshita Jain5 years ago in Wander
Magnolia Tree
It was another toss and turn night. One of many. Upon waking the images go through his head. Remembering the stark sky and the dead branches with a couple of crows flying up above. “Jack!!! Jock!”His name kept repeating. A voice never heard before “Come this way!” Stepping over gnarled branches the trunk turned on its side in the last hurrah of death. Something gleams in the dirt. Getting down on hands and knees he begins to dig around the object. Alarm ringing and then wake up. The same question again. What’s the treasure under the tree?
By Laura Corriveau5 years ago in Wander
The red
I’m usually out at night during the ripe hours of the city’s silence. Passing non existent footsteps, gracing street lights with no weight, pushing nothing but air and dust sparks from day old construction workers. The weight of the lens moves heavy on my shoulders with nothing to capture but the shadow I hear as I walk on light. Crossing street poles, cracks on the floor, visualising a future on naked mountain scapes overlooking colours of Barragán to keep the night interesting.
By Rowland Reyes Martinez5 years ago in Wander
