In 500 words, imagine what happens when a tourist and a local collide. Written for the Weekend Write-In prompt themed "Tourist". 25 - 27 September 2015
We've all had our ankles hit by shopping carts... Let's follow this encounter
Chance Encounter
"Hey, Mate... Watch that cart. My ankle's under there."
"Sorry, Bud... Got away from me on the slope. You okay?"
"Twisted again... It's my bad one; I'll just need to favour it for a while longer."
"You're not from here, you sound Aussie..."
"Sir, you insult me... I'm Kiwi. Calling me Aussie is as bad as my referring to you Canucks as Yanks."
"Your ankle seems bad, you're really favouring it..."
"Just an old sprain that I keep aggravating... It sorts itself out after a few minutes. I just need to sit a while; this heavy backpack isn't helping it."
"I've a place only two blocks away... You can sit there for a while... I really feel bad about banging into you. Put your pack on top of my cart; take the load off your ankle. We can head to my place slowly."
"That's too kind of you... But it really does need a rest. I'm David," the tall, muscular man said as he unshouldered his pack and laid it atop the shopping cart's load, extending his hand to shake.
"I'm John... So what are you doing here? Long way from New Zealand."
"Came here to do some climbing, but blew my ankle three weeks ago up in the Tantalus Range and I've been trying to sort it out since. Just arrived in Vancouver a few days ago and don't know my way around well yet."
"I'll orient you... I know all the good spots. I've been living in this area for years," John said as he pointed the way. "Straight ahead to the end of the block. You walk at a comfortable speed, set the pace, I'll stay alongside."
David looked at the man as they quietly moved down the slope. He looks late thirties, maybe forty. Looks fit, healthy. Good sparkle in his eyes. Wonder what his story is.
"To the left up ahead," John said, pointing. "So you're on a walkabout, a break from your studies? See lots of Aussies and Kiwis doing that here."
"Yes, a year's breather before starting post-grad work."
"I should have done that. I just stayed and stayed. Finally, at thirty-one, after three post-doctorates, I left to sort out what I wanted to do. I'm still doing that now at forty-four... How old are you?"
"Turned twenty-two last week... You look good for your age, your lifestyle must suit you. What do you do?"
"I'm a writer. I write novels. Historical novels mostly. Reality... None of the fantasy, science fiction, supernatural, zombies, vampires and other popular crap."
"Maybe I've read you — I like reality. What have you published?"
"Nothing yet... I have dozens of manuscripts and thousands of rejection slips... Maybe I should write fantasy," he said with a shrug. "Through here, past the trees. I have several places, but this one is my favourite."
"Here...? Under the bridge?"
"Yes, it's a great spot. McDonald's a block away... A coffee allows me to warm-up, provides me a clean toilet, a strong wifi connection...