Confessions Of A Traveler: contos, #1

By Ricardo Almeida

In "Confessions of a Traveler," immerse yourself in the unusual experiences of a traveler whose peculiar occupation leads him to cross borders and encounter new people at every turn. Most forget trivial encounters, but some linger, sensing that they can entrust the author with stories they cannot share with anyone else. These are narratives that haunt or ones they wish to forget.

The protagonist collects these stories while traveling for work, not fully understanding the qualities that make strangers open up to him. Perhaps it's his willingness to believe, regardless of the extravagance of the narrative.

A peculiar situation arises when he literally bumps into a woman coming out of a convenience store. She spills her drink, and in the moment he helps her, he realizes that she feels she can share a disturbing experience. Unfortunately, haste prevents him from hearing the story at that moment, but he gives her his business card, making an exception to his rule of not sharing contact information with those who only want to tell stories.

The next night, the woman calls him, and he finally hears the tale that had been haunting her for over a year. With her permission, he records the story, preserving her anonymity by altering names and locations. The author tries to keep the words as close as possible to the original account.

"Confessions of a Traveler" offers a unique and engaging insight into intense narratives, revealing the depth of human emotions and the complexities of relationships. With each page, we are transported into surprising encounters and moments of revelation that illustrate the richness and complexity of the human experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ricardo Almeida
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223288640

Book preview

Table of Contents

Confessions Of A Traveler (contos, #1)

Due to my strange occupation, I spent most of my time traveling and meeting new people.

Most forget about our trivial meetings but some lingers sensing that they can trust me

with some story that they would like to get off their chest.

A story they cannot tell anyone else.

A story that haunts them or one that they wish to forget.

I collect these stories as I travel for work.

I am unaware of what qualities I hold that make other people feel at ease enough to spill

their soul to a stranger.

Perhaps they can sense that no matter how outlandish the tale, I'll believe them.

The other day I literally bumped into a woman coming out of a corner store.

She dropped her drink and when I collected it to return it to her, she stared at me.

I knew in that moment she could sense that I was a person that she could unload an experience

that had been troubling her.

Unfortunately I could not stick around and hear it.

I was in a hurry and that was the reason why I ran directly into her in the first place.

But I gave her my business card to call me later that night for the following day.

I do not make a habit of giving out my number to people who only want to give me tales and

not work.

But for her I made a quick exception.

She did call me later that night and I had time to hear what had been troubling her for

over a year.

With her permission she allowed me to write down her story.

I of course changed the names and made the locations as a vague as possible for her sake.

I tried to keep this in her words as much as possible.

I only thought to write this down after I had heard it, so I may have forgotten every word

spoke but it should be very close to what had been said.

I think she was relieved that somebody believed what she had said.

And it does not matter to me if you believe this tale or not.

This is simply just what I heard that night.

A year ago maybe more I had been proposed to by my high school sweetheart.

He had been the only person that I had ever dated and I wasn't aware of any warning

signs that started to appear in our relationship.

In my defense they weren't very big warning signs either.

Things I could easily ignore sweep under the rug, believing that because we loved each

other everything was going to be fine.

Bill would stay out some nights which I assumed he took extra hours at his job and crashed

at a friend's place.

He spent a bit too much money on booze most weekends or for takeout when we just barely

were paying our rent.

When he did propose he bought the cheapest ring which I was fine with but his mother

had asked what happened to the ring that belonged to his grandmother that he had been given

when she had passed away.

His excuse was that he had