Translation Please? (C)

The world was a swirl of vibrant colours. Sweet flowers wafted down the street along with the smells of rush hour traffic, the smoke from the afternoon market, and the pungent odour of the durian sold by street-side vendors. It was a hot and humid afternoon. The market could be a busy and distracting place.
 In the distance I could here someone shouting over the crowds.
"Excuse me," she called out loudly, "I'm sorry!" But no one showed any sign of understanding her.
Above me the fruit vendor was smiling. He shouted out, "Canada!" in his nasal accent.
"Hello." She replied.
"Sawadee krub." He smiled.
"Mango." she said, pointing at the mangoes, "One."
"One?" he held up one finger. She nodded, "Yes." He put a juicy yellow mango in a bag for her.
I was relieved when she looked at me briefly, wrinkling up her nose.
"Pineapple." she said now, pointing to bags of pineapples, "One."
"One?" he echoed in his nasal accent, and held up one finger.
She nodded, impatiently. He put the second bag in with the mango.
"How ... are ... you?" the vendor's wife said slowly, smiling all the while.
"I am good." the girl replied, "How are you?"
"Very ... good." she answered.
The fruit vendor said. "Haa sip baht."
"What?"
"Fif-ty."
The girl reached for some bills from her purse.  She received a 10 baht coin in return.
"Kob khun krub, Canada."
"Thank you."
I breathed a sigh of relief, as did my brothers. We were safe.... for now.

Translation Please? (B)

The world was a swirl of vibrant colours. Sweet flowers wafted down the street along with the smells of rush hour traffic, the smoke from the afternoon market, and the pungent odour of the durian sold by street-side vendors. Emma was missing home. She walked along in a set of alarm and trying not to get hit by cyclists, other pedestrians, street dogs, motorcycles, or even other cars that had taken to the sidewalk. Three blocks to the market could seem a long way when it was as humid as it often was in the afternoon. Emma had no idea what to buy. The market could be a busy and distracting place. Some pineapple maybe, or a mango, and some fried chicken. She would stop for an iced coffee on the way back to her apartment.
She stepped into the market and immediately felt the familiar mix of panic and claustrophobia sweeping over her. "Excuse me," she called out loudly, "I'm sorry!" But no one showed any sign of understanding her.
Through the crowd she saw the smiling face of the fruit vendor, "Canada!" he called in his nasal accent.
"Hello." She replied. She wished he would tell her his name. She had tried to ask but he did not seem to understand the question.
"Sawadee krub." He smiled.
"Mango." she said, pointing at the mangoes, "One."
"One?" he held up one finger. She nodded, "Yes." He put a juicy yellow mango in a bag for her.
She looked at the disgusting spiky fruit that sat next to the mangoes. Eww, she thought.
"Pineapple." she said now, pointing to bags of pineapples, "One."
"One?" he echoed in his nasal accent, and held up one finger.
 Emma nodded, impatiently. He put the second bag in with the mango.
"How ... are ... you?" his wife said slowly, smiling all the while.
"I am good." Emma replied, "How are you?"
"Very ... good." she answered.
The fruit vendor said. "Haa sip baht."
"What?"
"Fif-ty."
Emma reached for 60 baht from her purse. At least the twenty baht bills were the same colour as twenties back home. She received a 10 baht coin in return.
"Kob khun krub, Canada."
"Thank you."

Translation Please?

The world was a swirl of vibrant colours. Sweet flowers wafted down the street along with the smells of rush hour traffic, the smoke from the afternoon market, and the pungent odour of the durian sold by street-side vendors. Lizzie walked as if in a daze, turning round and round trying to take everything in. And trying not to get hit by cyclists, other pedestrians, street dogs, motorcycles, or even other cars that had taken to the sidewalk. Three blocks to the market could seem a long way when it was as humid as it often was in the afternoon. Lizzie tried to keep careful tabs in her head on what she planned to buy. The market could be a busy and distracting place. Maybe some fish, some rice paddies, and fresh fruit for the next day. She would stop for an iced coffee on the way back to her apartment.
She stepped into the market and immediately felt the familiar mix of panic and claustrophobia sweeping over her. She did her best to keep out of the way of the other shoppers desperately searching her brain for the phrase meaning "excuse me" or "I'm sorry." It always eluded her.
Through the crowd she saw the smiling face of the fruit vendor, "Canada!" he called in his nasal accent.
"Sawadee ka." She replied. She wished he would tell her his name. She had tried to ask but he did not seem to understand the question.
"Sawadee krub." He smiled.
"Mango." she said, pointing at the mangoes, "One." She held up one finger.
He put a juicy yellow mango in a bag for her.
"Rambutan." she said now, pointing at the rambutans, "1 kilo." She held up a finger for one again.
"1 kilo?" he echoed in his nasal accent, and held up one finger.
Lizzie nodded. He placed a bag on his scale and began to fill it.
"How ... are ... you?" his wife said slowly, smiling all the while.
"I am good. Thank you." Lizzie replied, "How are you?"
"Very ... good." she answered.
The fruit vendor said. "Haa sip baht. Fif-ty."
Lizzie reached for 60 baht from her purse. She received a 10 baht coin in return.
"Kob khun krub, Canada."
"Kob khun ka."

A War Story

It was October 2001. The place? Afghanistan. After the horrors I saw unfolding on the television I had packed my bags, hugged and kissed my family, left my home. I wanted to live in a free world, where mothers, and fathers, brothers, and sisters could feel safe. I had heard it before each November 11th, that sometimes people had to make sacrifices in order to make sure we could all live the peaceful and comfortable lives we had in our home country. That's why I knew, at age 21, that there could be no higher honor than fighting, and possibly dying, to preserve the freedoms I had known growing up. When the first of the towers fell that terrible September day I held my loved ones close and together we prayed. A few hours later my bags were packed. I was dressed military greens as I drove away. I knew what my future held even if at that moment I had no idea where the next month would find me. But here I was, stepping off the plane and into the desert. My heart was poisoned with anger and hatred. I could feel the rage coursing in my veins, felt the willingness to rip through the savage men who had turned my world upside down. I had come here looking for enemies. I had arrived here, expecting revenge. Instead I stepped off the plane and I saw something else. Before me were women and children, mud-covered and terrified. I was struck with grief at their poverty. I found myself wondering how I could have ever been such a fool as to think that my own and my family's security had some bearing on the world outside my door, when these people clearly had trouble just putting food on their tables each day. If they even had tables. I looked into the sad eyes of the children, and I knew then that I could not go on.

Somewhere, as though far away I heard my commanding officer urging us forward with guns at ready. Some of the boys got a little bit confused, I think. They started shooting, as if they had come face to face with some invisible threat. All around us was screaming, crying, and swirling dust clouds. I ran. I didn't know where I was going then, but it was away from there. Before I managed to get out of the chaos I saw some terrible things, things I won't write here. I really am sorry. I apologize for how wrong I was, and for the mistakes of my fellow soldiers. I apologize that our government was so quick to point fingers. I apologize that I wasn't strong enough to stand up and say, "No. This isn't right." And mostly I apologize that our fear and grief as a nation blinded us to the plight of our fellow man.

I wandered aimlessly for awhile, with no way of getting home and fearing for my life at every turn. I never in a million years would have guessed I'd become a deserter. I always thought our nation was some great place, but in reality all people are just the same underneath it all. We all eat, sleep, breathe... and all of us are afraid. I don't know if this letter will ever get to my family and friends. I hope it does. I love you all and miss you terribly. I wish you could know I died a hero, have a flag and a metal to remember me by... but the truth is even if you did, I'm not sure I would die feeling I deserved some sort of honor. I am not sure I could be put at ease dying for my country. Know if you read this, I died to preserve human life. I realized I would kill so many mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, wives and cousins if I had done what was expected of me in my line of duty. I know so many innocent people would have died at my hands. I'm sorry if I disappointed you. Please know, that if we do not ever see each other again, mom, dad, Christie, Abby, and Danny... I love you, so much. I did what I thought was right. I hope you always are able to follow your hearts as well.

The Archway

It was the perfect day. Sun was shining, and flowers were blooming all around the garden. The lively chat of the guests was filled with the light tone that only this sort of day my invite. A handsome young man stood in front of the gathered crowd, adjusting his tie nervously. Birds sang in the trees and soft music floated up from under the willow where a violinist and cellist performed a duet. No one was really looking their way or paying strict attention to them but them seemed unaffected by the lack of notice. Children ran laughing among the seated adults, while mothers chided them half-heartedly and urged them to settle down. The boys were dressed to the nines while the girls made themselves at home in fluffy summer dresses. There was an atmosphere of celebration. The young man conferred with his watch and then turned to the elderly gentleman beside him, "Just one minute." he said.
"Yes, of course." said the elderly gentleman, with a twinkle in his eye.
The younger man walked down the center aisle smiling and tossing out greetings to the seated guests as he went. He arrived at the back of the crowd, where there stood an archway covered in white roses. He stepped through it, disappearing from view.
The young man stepped out of the computer screen, holding his hand out to you, "Don't be nervous, my love." he whispered softly.
He took your hand and together you stepped into the screen, back out through the archway. Your clothes were transformed to garments of the finest silk.
Together you stepped down the aisle to soft harmonies of the musicians. The crowd smiled up at you, calling out well wishes, snapping photos, letting out happy sighs for the beautiful couple. Today you would finally marry the love of your life.
The gentleman with the twinkle in his eye stood at the altar and opened up his book, "Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today..."

a death scene

It seemed Darrach had made a fatal mistake. A trip to the bar on a Friday night was normally not such a big deal, but Darrach always liked to test his limits. That is why he walked into the toughest bar in town. The moment he entered the door it was clear that his clean-shaven face and designer jeans were not going to fit in at this place. He walked up to the bar, only to be ignored by the bartender. He cleared his throat. "Can I get some service around here?"
The bartender reached over the bar and grabbed him around the throat, "What do you want boy?!"
"Whisky." Darrach managed to choke.
The bartender glared and mixed what looked like a very watered down drink, "Drink up and get out."
Things went down hill from there. He got up to go, taking a crisp 5 from his wallet. "It's seven." the bartender growled.
He reached for a 10 instead, "Keep the change."
He walked for the exit, past men smoking Cubans and playing pool. They were big men, with leather and chains. Darrach suspected the bikes out front belonged to them. Just as he reached the exit a hand grabbed his shoulder. A rough, unfamiliar voice came from behind, "What's your hurry, kid?"
"I didn't get the impression that I was wanted here." Darrach replied, perhaps over-confidently.
"Stick around." the voice said.
"Really?" Darrach asked, beginning to turn around. A left hook caught in the jaw and next thing he knew he was lying in the street. He tried to stand up, but was met with another fist to the face. He tried to stay calm. A crowd was forming. He needed a plan to escape. He tried to look around but a kick to the chest made him uncertain on his bearings. Crap, thought Darrach, I'm going to die. Through his hazy vision he saw a man who looked half-ogre standing before him. He had broad shoulders, and thick dark hair on his arms and face. His t-shirt had a skull on it and had slits in it. This guy had been in fights before and won. Darrach made a rash decision he was going to ram the guy. He crouched and sprinted head on at his adversary. He never made it. The man held his head at arms length making Darrach swing at the air like a little boy. People in the gathering crowd laughed.
Damn it, Darrach thought, I'm in trouble this time.
This was likely an understatement. The large man shoved Darrach back to the ground and drew a knife.
Darrach began to see his life flash before his eyes as the man walked forward. What a failure he had been. He found himself doing something very uncharacteristic, praying. Please God, give me a second chance. I've been such a screw up so far. Please, it's too soon.
The man was so close he could smell his sweat and the alcohol on his warm breath. He raised the knife, aiming for Darrach's chest.
Suddenly, his attacker keeled over backwards, clutching at his heart. Darrach could do nothing but stare. Could this be happening? In a few short seconds Darrach realized the man was either dead or dying. His buddies suddenly had looks of concern and alarm and came rushing forward to aid him. Darrach did the one thing he was good at, and ran as fast as he could away from that place!
It would be great if it could be said that he was true to his word and that he became a good person, but stories rarely end like that.

A love scene

It was a beautiful evening. The moon was a mere sliver in the starry sky and Adrianne was sitting wistfully in the window ledge looking out of her second story apartment at the street below. Somewhere above her a baby was crying, someone was strumming a few cords on their guitar, and a TV blared out Sports News. She looked down at the book in her lap. Then up at the walk clock with the broken face that hung on the patched drywall opposite her. The brick building was crumbling around her. She swore sometimes she could feel it sigh, tired as it was of its many years of occupation. right now, however, that was merely a momentary distraction, for soon he would step out of a silver chariot and onto the damp pavement below. The night would try to swallow his countenance but she would see him as the headlights dimmed and he would smile up at her. She wished his visits were more frequent and yet she could not help but feel her stomach flopping with one part anxiousness, one part anticipation. Soon, very soon! It could not be long now before he bolted up the rundown staircase and she unbolted the door so he could sweep her off her feet. If only it could be now, right now, and not a moment later! She wore a funny smile. It was not the nicest neighborhood but she had not been so happy in a long time. Something about him, melted her ice heart, let her dream of summer nights walking along sandy beaches, and picnics in the park. She sprang from the windowsill, dancing to an unheard tune, a silhouette in an empty room. In the apartment below her she heard the raucous of Friday night getting underway, complete with the audible smashing of glass. Then suddenly there was a soft buzzing. She reached for the phone in her pocket, read the message carefully, "I'm here!" She gazed down to the street and there was the silver car, lights already dimming. Out of the car came a striking young man, with dark ruffled hair. He smiled up at her from inside his hoodie. Her heart melted. She raced to the door to unlock it as he bounded up the stairs. Then he swept her into a big hug. She said, "Dylan, I've missed you so much!" Then her teenage son kissed her on the cheek and said, "I've missed you too, mom. It's been too long."

30 Days?

I've decided to give this a try. I never have been good at following instructions, however!

FICTION

001. a love scene
002. a death scene
003. a scene you’ve always wanted to write but never did
004. a war scene
005. a scene using two characters who don’t speak each other’s languages 
— 005b. same scene, this time from the other character’s POV
— 005c. same scene, this time from a unique POV - for example the walls of the room they’re in
006. a short piece based on a dream you’ve had recently
007. the beginning of a novel in less than 500 words AND the ending of the same novel in less than 500 words.
008. a scene inspired by your favourite quote
009. a scene inspired by your favourite photo
010. a piece of fan fiction
011. a letter to your character’s husband during world war two
012. something you’ve never written before; something experimental
013. your character’s history in about five hundred words
014. your character’s personality in about five hundred words
015. something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue
016. a diary entry 
017. something that’d be really cool but also impossible
018. go here, select “min 1, max 349” and click generate. gohere, hover over the number and write whatever the prompt tells you to. 
019. your deepest secret hidden in a piece of fiction

NON FICTION

020. a good memory
021. a bad memory
022. anything you want to get off your chest
023. a piece about a good friend/someone you admire without naming them
024. a short piece about yourself without naming ANY negative things
025. something that frustrates you
026. something you love in less than seventy words
027. a piece about your past
028. a piece about your future
029. your day in one sentence - do this for two weeks.
030. a dream diary - at least a week
031. three things that make you different from others explained
041. anything you feel like writing.

The Shack and I

I read this book the other day called The Shack by Wm. Paul Young. Someone told me that it had caused them to cry out loud. I thought for sure they must be joking, or else soft, until I read it. I was on an airplane at the time... and it was all I could do to turn to the window so the stranger sitting next to me couldn't see the tears welling up in my eyes. The back story for the main plot is so touching, and so well written. The plot itself is crazy, inspiring, and beautiful. There are so many ideas in there which are worth thinking about. There were parts I loved, and parts I hated. I fought with myself in parts, and I'm likely better for it. This book is the best thing I have read in a long time. You should check it out. Get on Amazon or go to your nearest bookstore or library and find a copy! Seriously, you won't regret it!

3 Things Wrong With This Picture

Okay so I was Stumbling through the internet and came across this picture:

Seriously?!
1. The mouse is not plugged in!
2. The person is using their wrong hand.
3. Whoever wrote that on the bottom of the picture is a complete idiot!
So what exactly would only guys get again?!