Creative Non-Fiction Short Stories. :) Travel, Oldsters, Love, and Compassion.
I keep dreaming about Bosnia these days.
A sheepish lady tourist examines a plaque in Mostar’s Spanish square. It seems a good place to pause, fan herself, gaze around without being noticed. Half a block beyond the inscribed names and rock of memorial, a still-standing structure looks more like an ongoing Jenga game than an office building. There are no windows, what remains standing is shredded. There are no helpful tour guides to ask if this was part of the war “ruins,” noted in town with large signs warning people not to trespass, usually paired with souvenir stands selling plastic Kalashnikov key chains. She turns away without snapping a photo and waits at a crosswalk.
On the other side of the street, a shirtless local man, tanned to the point of redness, rubs his shaved head while waiting to cross. His shirt is draped over one shoulder as he faces the oncoming meekness.
The woman jaywalks to…
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