Monday, February 16, 2009

the tow n of Bradford, England is set in a valley of which many people migrate or just simply are dropped off at, much like tide pool creatures awaiting the next big tide to drag them out into the big open ocean. Historic landmarks usually have their place in Bradford, of which many people tend to pass by not noticing the beauty and awe of what has happened there. Various nationalities are seldom seen in this wild yet horrific place, either you are to be a local or a tourist, or just dropped by to visit a friend to tell them about the outside world. Muslims make up a close fifty percent of this town, and it's odd when talking to them, simply because you would assume that a Muslim would carry a middle eastern accent, but in fact, they own up to a raw English accent, in which it almost would sound as if he or she were mumbling. The town has an unremarkable claim to it's reputation, many locals try to work their way out of the place, and others have no means of leaving, their stuck, much like a simple barnacle to it's lonely yet desolated post. It's always cold in the town of Bradford, scarves and mittens are seen on everybody but locals, so it's easy to point out someone who knows not yet as to where their going, it's funny. There are plenty of houses that create a suburb-like area in the town of Bradford, and either way traveled is a hill in which one would have to heave their way up or caution them self down. The surrounding towns are much better then Bradford, but it's an adventure to get out. The sun is seldom seen, it's either hiding behind the clouds, or somewhere over beyond the horizon or covered up by the hills and mountains covered with houses. Fog sticks like glue to the buildings in the main square in Bradford, and the cold air and wind never seizes to let up, as nostrils and fingers grow cold, and one's breathe is a normal thing to see.
Down the main road as to where the only church is in Bradford, there's a simple convenience store, and across the street lies a lonely park, with fresh green grass, and a lonely carousel, in which the only person that's normally at this park works there, and is usually hung to some type of drug.
And within this park, a local resident by the name of Sin, floats in and out much like the trash that sits on the grassy field cause on a random bush, and all of a sudden, somehow the wind picks up and blows him away.
Sin was a tall man, it was obvious that he was a Muslim, he wore a turban on his head fit snug as it may have never was taken off of his head. He had unusually dark skin for a Muslim, and didn't care about what he looked like. He wore the same thing every day, torn up jeans, and an off white sweater that had unremarkably noticeable stains, they seemed to look like coffee stains, or something, but nobody ever knew, or really cared for that fact. His breath smelled, and his teeth resembled that of an opossum. His eyes were deeply set into his face , and to stare into them was somehing only a brave young soul could conquer. He didn't have any friends, and it seems hat he was bitter at something that's not so distinguishable on the surface. But if someone had started him up, he would openly admit to things. It was obvious something was wrong.
He would wake up early mornings, buy a bottle of beer, a big one, maybe it was hard liquor, he would carry it around in a brown bag. And almost everybody would admit to seeing him stumble around Bradford everyday.
His spot though, was in front of the carousel, there was a bench that literally had his name on it, because he was the only one to occupy that bench within the past 10 years of his life. So in the early morning he would take his place at the bench, drink his beer, and by around noon, he would stumble down to the convenience store for another one. He'd return to his bench, and do it over again, and by night time, he would return to the place at which he rested his head.
It was his life.
He was the city's ghost.

The town of Phoenix, Arizona will ever stick into memory as a hot and dry unusably small city, a trade mark Hyatt stands as the tallest building noticed by passerbyers speed along the highway. Restaurants usually flaunt their air conditioned atmosphere and offer a soothing mist system to coax tourists and business men to come in and fulfill their appetite. The Jamba Juices are always busy, and it's likely that one might just be able to catch a little line, but that's seldom seen. The heat pushes people to speed up their pace, and become a bit pushier.
The buses in Phoenix were always busy, sometimes they became cram packed, the people often resembled a can of sardines, and to see the buses unload was a riot.
One faithful attendee however, was a young lady named Dusty. She was a local, she was white. She had long brown hair that she decided to hide so it wouldn't attract the strangers she struck up conversations with. Her teeth however, didn't resemble your tipical American, they were stained in her past life ( which is one she does not choose to brag about), but her smile could be seen from a distance, and it's a warm smile that could, in fact, be your cup of coffee on a cold Bradford night. She wasn't all that tall, but her confidence sometimes stood as tall as the Hyatt in Phoenix. And a smile was always slapped on her face. It seemed as if she was the happiest person in Phoenix, and she often credited that towards her God that she claims saved her life. She often was responsible for converting random strangers to Christianity, on a good day she would win over about 10 people. And it seems that it was her full-time job. She never had to worry about money, it seemed as if money would just fall over her lap, much like that feather in forest gump at the end of the movie that falls somewhere significant.

Dusty would not know what was to hit her yet, as she stepped on the plane to travel to a lonely city in Hungary.

To be continued?....

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