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.

 

Complaining can be ...

 Useful and productive.

10 days ago it was the 24^th anniversary of my husband’s death.

I still live in the same village and do try and go up to the cemetery a few times throughout the year, especially on the day, if I am in town.

 

Our cemetery is currently being renovated – a construction site full of its own problems and literally everything is being changed except the accumulated graves.

I was able to go up on the day, but when I returned on the weekend, there was absolutely no way of entering the lower part, where he is buried.

 

I took photos and wrote an email to the Mayor’s office, trying not to be totally nasty, but I did emphasize that this was NOT admissible.

 

I duly received an answer saying that obviously the access was badly marked (actually none as there is a wall, there were gates where the construction company enters, there were barriers in between upper and lower parts and there is a fence with construction “paper” on the other two sides. Perhaps an animal could enter: a human not. But they did say that they had discussed it during a meeting of the construction team. I answered that I would check this weekend.

 

I did and imagine my surprise, a totally acceptable opening and they even put down the white

Pathways in order that we didn’t have to walk on mud!

Sometimes complaining gets results!

 

 

Laughter

The National Geographic put out, at least in 2014, a lovely book containing quotes and photos for the 365 days of the year.

Today’s caught my attention.

 

A French writer, Jules Renard, wrote

“We were put here on earth to laugh.

We will no longer be able to do so in purgatory nor hell.

And, in heaven, it wouldn’t be appropriate”.

 

Not sure that I want to go anywhere where laughter isn’t appropriate. Sometimes even

The most solemn occasion or sad circumstances bring on a laugh if nothing more than to break the seriousness of the event. Life without these moments would be dull indeed.

 

 

 

Life’s little moods

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. -Percy Bysshe Shelley, poet (1792-1822)

 

And loss is loss, be it a day, a month, a year, a decade or even 24 years.

February 2, 2000 was one of those days, my children lost their father, I my husband.

And if the tragedy of the loss has diminished the remembered pain survives.

 

Putting away grief – and the Christmas tree – are some of the hardest things to do.

Today I did both.