Showing posts with label free writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label free writing. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Free writing

 I have, over the years, occasionally done free writes with friends. 

This is our latest production:

Tuesday, March 12, 2024

Free Write: Quote from a Book

 


Prompt: A quote from Diane Johnson's L'Afaire. "It was clear the driver was hurrying on his rounds, perhaps fearing the people would be stranded in the worsening storm."

Goal: To write ten minutes using the prompt without stopping.

Note: Julia and Rick knew what their ending was before they started. D-L had no idea until she had the three-minute warning to finish up. It was clear to her that it could be a chapter and her ending would morph into chapter 2. The fun of these group free writes is the similar and different each of us takes.

Rick's Free Write

To say that Pierre was distracted was understatement.

His daughter had announced that morning that she was leaving home, and slammed the door. As he watched her strut down the street, small suitcase in hand, his wife, Emilie, had one of her anxiety attacks.

It had taken an hour to get her calmed down, and even then she was still touch and go.

He had to make his deliveries or he wouldn’t get paid. But he decided to look for Marie first. She wasn’t on any of the streets around. Probably holed up at her friend’s, Samantha, the American expat. Or had hopped a train to visit her boyfriend at Uni. Snobbish prig.

He finally had to abandon the search and start delivering his dry goods to neighborhood shops. Instead of the usual cheery greeting, he got a lot of gruff “You’re late”’s.

Two more deliveries to go and the rain was coming hard now. He pressed the accelerator to round a corner and heard a thump about the same time as the lightning and thunderclap.

Should he investigate? No, he had to deliver before the customers closed their stores.

Marie lay on the side of the road, bleeding and soaked, and unconscious.

D-L'sFree Write

It was clear the driver was hurrying on his rounds, perhaps fearing the people would be stranded in the worsening storm.

Jacques wanted to go faster but the danger of skidding was too great.

As the wipers did a semi-good job of keeping the windshield clean, he tried to look for any skiers but saw none.

Global warming? Bah! Global cooling. This winter there had been more snow than there had been for the last 12 years.

What was that up ahead? It looked like a woman and a boy running, skies slung over their shoulders.

He braked and skidded. If they hadn't jumped, he'd have hit them.

They rushed to his van, threw their skies away and jumped in.

"Go!" the woman yelled. "Go!"

It was then he saw a man emerge from behind the row of pine trees lining the road. He had a gun, some kind of hunting rifle.

He stepped on the gas, praying he wouldn't skid. A bullet pinged off the back of the van. "Get down," he yelled to the woman and boy.

Only after three curves, did he feel they were safe from the gunman and he slowed to a less dangerous speed.

"Do you want to tell me about this, or do you want to go to the police station? he asked.

Julia's Free Write

”It was clear that the driver was hurrying on his rounds, perhaps fearing that people would be stranded in a worsening storm”.

She didn’t often take this route, nor public transportation, but with her grandson sick in the hospital, she realized more how fragile life could be and was not willing to take any extra risks, especially with the latest weather forecast predicting a bad storm.

She still had her driver’s license at 85 and was sometimes afraid of losing it.

She made it to the hospital and had a very good visit – her son and wife were there as well, all hoping that having survived the avalanche that killed several of his friends, he would make it.

None were believers, yet in times of crisis, thoughts tended to send up a “prayer”.

And she was on her return trip and the storm had truly broken. A flash of lightening, a deluge of hail. Just as he skidded off the road.

In the front of the bus, she was the first in the water: St. Peter was there to meet her. As she looked at him, she said “fair enough, I’m glad you took me and not Joel”!

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

Rick is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com

 

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. www.dlnelsonwriter.com

 

Wednesday, February 28, 2024

Free writing

For many years, I had a friend living with me that is a professional writer.

Visiting her in Southern France she, I and another friend used to sit in a coffee shop, one of us would pick a person passing by, then we would write about that person for 10 minutes. Such fun – sometimes the stories were similar, but often totally different.

I have been fortunate to pick this hobby back up with her and her husband. Below the results of our most recent free write.

I can highly recommend free writing – any subject, your imagination and ten minutes can produce wonderful results.

Free Write The Old Man

Note: We found a rather scruffy man with a full beard and long hair in the café as our free write prompt. 

Rick's Free Write

He was sitting at the corner table in the back, where he sat every morning about this time – except Friday and Saturday when the boulangerie was closed. (I know, odd days not to be open, but this was a small village, and the residents did as they pleased, regardless of convention.) I nodded to him as I sat down at a  table kitty-corner, and he dipped his head slightly, comme d’habitude.

We never spoke. Well, not never. Once, months ago, when I first encountered him, when I was new to the village, I had tried to engage him in chit-chat. But he didn’t reciprocate. Just kept munching bits off his croissant and nursing his espresso.

I’d guessed he was in his 70s, like me, but looked older. Shaggy gray-on-gray hair and unruly beard. A weathered face that suggested working the farm fields for many years. Presumably retired, but then again, maybe 9:30 in the morning was the end of his chore time at the farm.

I watched as he struggled to his feet, then shuffled toward the door, partly dragging his left foot. Maybe he’d be run over by something. Or just severe arthritis.

He left, comme d’habitude, without a word.

I wonder what he thought of me.

Julia's Free Write

He is in the bakery CUM MINIMART EVERY TIME I GO IN.

I imagine he is a daily customer although he never seems to interact with anyone.

I further imagine, sleuth deduction based upon appearances, slightly scruffy around the edges, that he has no one at home.

And what was his life?

Where did he work?

Where in this small village does he live?

Born and raised here in the village?

A farmer who no longer has a farm?

An industrial worker?

Has he travelled – if only into the neighboring town? Or has he always been only here?

More questions than answers, until…

I mentioned him to friends in the village: “Oh, didn’t you know? He had a major construction company, travelled all of Europe doing business. Then when his whole family died in a fire 30 years ago, he sold it all and lives on his own in that mansion on the hill.

Remarks: story based on similar stories of two other men: one oe whom is Martin Gray, author of “For Those I loved” and a man in the next village over from mine, whose name I don’t know.

D-L's Free Write

Olie's coffee grew cold, but he was in no hurry to go home.

Home. Hah!

An apartment. The only reason it was furnished was that his son insisted he take furniture from the house he and Lydia had shared for 47 years.

The waitress knew better than to ask him if he wanted another cup of coffee.

He had perfected his growl, launching it through his thick beard and shoulder-length hair.

He thumbed through the Tribune de Genéve. War! War! War! The world had gone crazy.

His leg hurt. He shifted it. He wouldn't tell his son, who would insist he go to the damn fool doctor.

The café buzzed with people, two, three or four to a table. Blah! Blah! Blah!

A woman entered with a brat, a boy of maybe three or four.

Olie scowled imagining that the brat would throw a tantrum if he couldn't have whatever.

Instead, the boy walked over and stared at him. "Why do you look so sad? Did one of your reindeer die?"

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

 

Rick is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com

 

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. www.dlnelsonwriter.com

 

Rick created the art work using Midjourney.