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Florida has among the worst roads in the nation, by Complete Streets standards. The Sunshine State hasn't done anything that differently from anybody else—but they just have done more of it. No single document will turn this around, but the Complete Streets Implementation Policy is an impressive effort toward more diverse thoroughfares with a wider range of mobility.

View the discussion thread. Skip to main content. Toggle navigation X. Toggle navigation. Children in the street in Seaside, Florida. From Complete Streets Implementation Plan. A comprehensive implementation guide was written to retool the machinery behind Florida's deadly streets. Typical Florida arterial road with many characteristics of "forgiving design. However, I wonder about statements like this: "Modify standards for SIS Strategic Intermodal Systems facilities to allow more design flexibility when facilities are located in urban areas. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit.

She is the most intricate figure that I have ever seen with a pointy crown carved on her head. I wait to see if my player will sacrifice me to the wrath of the queen. I watch his hand carefully moving to pick out the bishop. A feeling of dread sweeps over me. I am about to be replaced. The queen topples over in defeat. Michael winces as my player sweeps the queen off the board. Michael retaliates. The bishop is struck down by the castle in a final effort to stop me but it is too late.

I have done it. I am guided forward to the last space by my player. I wait. My time has come as I am removed from the game. The black queen, in all her glory, takes my place on the board. I am set aside next to the timer, set aside, abandoned. Like, a pawn. This clever story means I will never play a game of chess again without feeling the tenseness, anxiety and ultimate abandonment of the lowly, but vital, pawn. Well written, with an original plot. I gave him that name because he was born during a time when there was a war waging within myself.

Living in poverty, I did not know if I could take care of the baby boy that was growing inside my womb; I was scared. But my son, even though he grew up amongst the piles of rubbish, he grew up well, well until my countrymen decided to scatter greed to feed their pleasures. Now I was running, running as far as my feet could take me. Abiodun — his name no longer meant the same to me; he was no longer a child born during a war, but he was a child enslaved to war. Sierra Leone burnt bright that day.

We stood at the back of our disintegrating hut, my husband forced to stand against the wall. He is your father!

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I saw the madness in his eyes, they did this to him. My son was innocent, I told myself over and over again. I looked at his face one last time, the man I loved, his skin made of ebony glinted under the sunlight, the sweat dripping from the sides of his temple. Then his eyes stood still, wide, glassy, as he succumbed to the ground. Abiodun turned around to stare at me then, his breath hung heavy, the AK flexing in his hands, he looked apprehensive; I could sense his fear.

You must run, you need to have the baby. Before I lose control. And so, I ran. Leaving my village behind me I ran, ran till the wind got knocked out of me. At nights, I wondered if my boy was okay, if the rebels were still with him. Running, I fled to Guinea, I made it my home, even though the earth in Sierra Leone still bore the roots of my blood.

I worked here day and night, making this a comfortable home for my daughter. I wanted my daughter to remember the taste of the war. I wanted her to treasure its lessons, to teach it to her future generations. More than three and a half years since I last saw him. He turned fifteen last month.

I still loved him, I forgave him. The acts that drove him to murder, they were not his The drugs forced into his bloodstream, they were not his fault. I thought about how people from the same country could carry so much hate around. How that hate poured out of them, soaking their minds with the thought to murder their very own brothers, their flesh and blood. The greed for power, the greed for money, the greed for our diamonds, all gone in vain with the end of the war. Hate can never triumph, that is what I learnt from this life. Now that the war was over, I needed to find him.

The place was so much quieter now, new well-built houses lined the sides of the roads, painted in different shades. Green, white and blue banners hung up all over the place, I almost forgot that those were the colours of the flag. The place looked idyll, almost.

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Waving towards him a worn out photograph, one of Abiodun smiling, teeth bared, the joy surrounding the rims of his eyes, I missed that little boy. How would you know that?

Please take me to him, his mother did not die. This is his sister. The Rehabilitation Centre for Children of War stood tall on the outskirts of town. Painted white, it symbolized peace. We sat in an enormous classroom, the wall on one side had a window looking out into the town. I watched many children come in and out of the classrooms, their pants ironed, and skirts crisp, hair neatly tied, and some had scars across their faces, stumps for legs; they all smiled.

I waited, anticipating, unsure if he was the same boy. And then he came in, illuminating the classroom. He was a lot different now, taller than before, bronzer skin, wider shoulders, his dimples grew deeper, yet this was still my boy; I knew it was him from the way he walked, the way his shoulders slumped around the edges; he smiled warmly at me. Reluctantly, she peeled her eyes open just enough to take in her surroundings.

Dozens of families as vulnerable as hers had commenced on this journey to nowhere with them. Grudgingly, they treaded onwards on the green, open land. Trees were scattered randomly across the earth, staring down at her, waving their branches in farewell. A subtle breeze danced through her hair, tickling her tender cheek.

She glimpsed at her mother, immediately noticing the sheet of sweat that shimmered on her forehead while she tried to support her daughters as she marched tensely. There are no more homes to go back to. Curiously, none of them carried any luggage. They left with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and a few belongings, as if they were on a trip that would soon end and they would return home. There are no more homes to back to.

Yet neither one of the sisters had dared ask why their father had not joined them yet. Looking around at the families encircling her, she recognized the distress they lugged with them, and the She watched a little boy toddle on his own, hugging a worn out teddy bear as he wandered, falling to the ground every few steps he took but continue to try again. Little did he realize that he was lost.

Wearing a hollowness in her eyes, a woman slowly walked alone, as if every step was consuming her strength and motivation. A man crouched over his injured children, crying for help. He knew that no one could reverse what they did. The men who carried guns. Knocking down doors, barging into houses, firing at anyone in their way, banishing people from their homes, leaving them either stranded at their mercy or evacuating for the sake of survival.

At a complete loss for words, the girl remained motionless, gaping at her mother in disbelief, frantically trying to find comfort in her gaze with no reassurance. For a moment that could have been eternity, her rapid heartbeat was the only sound she could sense. For a moment that could have been eternity, she forgot how to breathe, her mouth gaping open in vain.

It was only after that excruciating moment that the reality of what happened had sunk in. She was abandoned. Isolated in a crowd of people. Denying the truth that burdened her, the helplessness that overcame her, and the fear that slaughtered her hope, she attempted to get up.

Not after what they did with their guns. A single tear trailed down her face, as she hung her head in defeat. The cold sensation catching her off guard. She finally awoke to the pain of loss. Struck by the grief that clogged her chest, the prejudice of her situation was all that she could fathom in the chaos.

What had she done wrong? What had all these people done wrong, to deserve such abuse? In a few, short hours, youths were drained of their pureness and innocence and adults were stripped of their childhood reminiscences and security. Nostalgia lurked in the air, extracting evidence of amity from a previous reality, replacing it with bleakness and devastation in this new one. Trees were scattered randomly across the earth, staring down at her, waving their branches at her in a warning of There was not a single cloud in the sky to shield them from the hot sun as it bore its hot glow onto the never-ending land.

A subtle wind shifted her hair, mocking her and the future she would never get. Mocking her journey, which would never end. Nothing could have restored beauty to that wretched day. Congratulations to the winners, and many thanks to all those who submitted stories this year. May we all continue to enjoy reading journeys for many years to come. Roses were her favourite flower and now they lay wilting beside the ornately decorated coffin, seeming to mourn her death. He wished he could block it all out; perhaps cover his ears with his hands like a small child and pretend nothing existed.

Her bones would rot and crumble, and the earth would swallow her whole grotesquely. Tears sprang to his eyes, and Asher hurriedly excused himself from the procession, shoving past distant family members and pushing open the doors to step out into the bitterly cold October morning. The sun shone weakly above, and Asher cursed it for momentarily stinging his eyes. The air was cold and it encompassed him as soon as he stepped indoors after work. He remembered a disembodied shriek flooding his ears, the harsh footsteps on the stairs as he rushed up them.

He recalled the cherry red blood staining the hardwood floor, and how her hair fanned out in a mess of tangles. He took in the pale undertones of her skin and the darkened circles beneath her eyes, and even then she managed to hold his heart prisoner. It was everywhere; red and utterly beautiful because it was flowing through her veins, but at that moment it poured from her neck, little rivulets trailing down and disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt.

It was mocking him as it dropped with a small whimper to the floor. Asher snapped out of his reverie when he felt a touch to his shoulder. They had the same unfathomable, foggy grey eyes. Julian ran a hand over his face. The words rolled off his tongue like an avalanche; strong, sure and cataclysmic. He held up five fingers. And the first one is denial. A time bomb seemed to tick between them, and the air grew charged with tension.

Melancholy was overpowering when Asher decided to investigate. His fingers brushed feather-light over her photographs, her pens and diaries, and even then Asher felt as if his touch was tainting her possessions. Her scent of wild blossoms still lingered and wafted through the still air. He found nothing to lead him to find her killer at their own house.

Asher found himself wondering why his cheeks were constantly tear-stained. Asher, however, would not leave it at that. He was like a thundercloud with two feet, visiting her workplace to question her colleagues. Asher went through her files and papers, tracing her handwriting over and over again until he had to be pulled away. He visited her closest friend next, Julie. She had you. She had the perfect job. He knew how Sylvie and Julie were childhood friends; the framed picture of the two as ten-year-olds, laughing spontaneously stared down at him from her mantelpiece.

She had everything, Julie. Someone wanted to take that away from her! The realization was so strong and sudden; almost like a gravitational pull towards every answer he had ever searched for. He jumped to his feet, rushing towards the door. All rational thoughts blurred in his mind, which was a site of demolition and destruction only fuelled on by his grief. Sitting in his car, Asher reminded himself that he was willing to go on any journey, any length to avenge the death of his wife.

His breathing quickened as he placed his sweaty palms on the steering wheel and began to drive. It was so obvious. It was so evident. When he finally reached his destination - a house just a few minutes away from their own - he hammered on the door until it was answered by another man. It was like an illusion, how similar he looked to Sylvie. You murdered her! He blindly threw punches and kicks, taking him off guard.

He had metamorphosed into an unstoppable monster, but he was brimming with regrets and apologies. Asher was unstoppable and uncontrollable and uncontainable. Returning home from work that evening, he reeked of misfortune and negativity. His mind was wounded like a He released Julian and stared down at his hands, the hands of a murderer, memorizing their cruel shape. He wanted to hold on and cling tight to the semblance of love, and of endless journeys to prove it, but now he feared it was merely a mirage.

The love slipped through his fingers. Skilfully plotted, the story leads the reader step by step to the final twist with a logical progression of events and careful character development. Natalie is happy. After the long 2 years, finally she got a vacation to go back to her hometown and meet the love of her life- Ravit. Natalie waited happily in the airport for the announcement to board the aircraft.

Natalie laughed out loud. She is the happiest in the world. David tried to take his mind off, and concentrate. He tried to feel the roaring engines beneath his feet. He loved the airplanes and it was time to board.

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Natalie seated herself. She wanted the time to fly. The 4 hours of flight seemed too long for her. He tried to feel every movement of the aircraft, like the first time he flew it. He was admiring how the plane moved through the sky. When it did the pitching and yawning, he could feel her pushing the air apart as she moved towards the welcoming sky. David felt it more like a question than a statement because the captain had a questioning look on his face. David could see the setting horizon, the shadows of pink engulfing the white clouds and giving it the best look.

Some view that no one should miss while flying. Captain Kenneth was admiring it. David knew, he loved this scenery the most. He felt it- he felt something wrong with the big bird he was flying. He looked at the captain who had the shocked look on his face. The beep started coming on. The flight engineer looked worried, the air traffic controller was contacted. Why is this happening now? David thought. The horror happening before his eyes did not go with the view outside. She always loved to watch the sky with the great wings interrupting.

She feels like the wing belongs to her, that she is the one flying. Natalie watched the beautiful sky outside; the clouds were like small hills and the rays of light falling on them — such a beauty! She thought smiling. At first, Natalie thought the wings were reflecting the setting sun. She had felt the plane shudder. Everybody ignored it.

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Such things happen on the flight. She stared in horror. What was happening now? Her hand went up for the call button but her mind said it was late. He knew it was of no use but he wanted to hold tight to it. What if a miracle happens? Captain Kenneth prayed his last prayers and held They both looked at each other, maybe the last journey through. He had the bouquets of red roses in his hand, Natalie loved them the best. He had reached two hours before the arrival of the airplane in which Natalie is to come.

He was excited to meet her. Half an hour before the arrival, he could see the relatives of the passengers pouring in. Everybody was waiting for their loved ones. Maybe they too were like him; long to see their loved ones. How many years? He could see his expression reflected in every face around him.

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Another two hours had gone by. He saw that the roses started to wilt. He could feel himself losing his freshness with his patience. Where is it? Natalie had told him the departure was on time. Everybody seemed to be disturbed around him. Should he wait even more to meet his love? And then he saw, the relatives screaming, some running into the airport, the security guards stopping them.

He watched in horror. Are they getting tired? But there were more with the same expressions. He went for the source. The television He watched it, confused. There was an aerial view of a crash. The people stamped on it, some screaming, others watching the TV in horror. The young women traveling to reunite with her love, the young man awaiting her arrival and the co-pilot who attempts to avert the crash are all proficiently depicted by the writer, who builds to the dramatic climax with effective pacing and well-crafted use of detail.

Dead, then brought back to life. Not me, of course, but my garden. You may be wondering: why a garden, what made it so special, so unique? November 17th. I lost my life the day I lost my wife, Jane. To a monster, a murderer that cut through her body with each painfully slow passing minute. A murderer that goes by the name of Cancer. She was so strong. Older with every round of the clock. Our only child had moved out a few years before and there was no need for us to live in a big house anymore.