Freewrite "The Senators"

 

Today's freewrite was from the café Mille et Une under new management. The croissant and chocolat chaud were great.

We chose the bench kitty corner from the café where the old men, "the senators" of the village gather. When we started writing there were only three. With this prompt and we wrote for ten minutes, non stop.

Rick's Freewrite:  Observations of a Village Street Corner

 

Two "senators" in animated conversation, solving the problems of the world -- with emphasis.

A pigeon perched on the arch alcove, The Amigo lottery poster, poised next to "bombs away" on the upside down moto helmet on the bottom ledge.

 

A 360°degree surveillance camera under the red-and-white tabac sign. Does any one monitor these images of villagers walking and cycling to-and-fro? Would it matter? (Maybe to arrest the cyclists, who are supposed to dismount on the pedestrian street.)

 

One of the "senators" resembles Dad in the face, the physique, the short jacket and cap. But not the cigarette -- Dad never smoked.

A mere meter from the "senators" bench, a decorative, cylinder trash bin, which collect detritus and dog merde sacs throughout the day.

Around the next corner from the bench are racks of tourist postcards and maps for hikers.

Families wander through the intersection -- it's school vacation week -- weaving in and around the village elderly and merchants. Though only mid-latish October, a Christmas star and strings of fairy lights, hang diagonally overhead, in defiance of the string of plastic flags the summer colors (which is annoyingly noisy in the wind).

One "senator" has departed the bench. Four more have joined. 

Will more minds solve the world's problems faster? Better?

D-L's Freewrite - The Missing Senator

Only three "senators" were sitting on "their bench" under the Vegas Millionaire Banco sign, Marc, Pierre, Jacques.

Once there had been six of them, all recent retirees at the time, kicked out of their homes each morning by wives wanting to cook and clean without them being underfoot.

At first they talked about their old jobs, which gave way to chatter about grandchildren and the dismal performance of the local rugby team.

Their wives had thought it disrespectful to Jean to wear their regular sweats. They thought it showed respect to him being dressed as the did for their morning meetings.

Marc put his hand on the cool spot next to him. Last week Jean was there warming the wood. 

A hearse drove by on its way to the church a block away. They saw the flower-covered coffin through its windows.

"We can wait for the bells," Marc said. No sooner had he spoken and the bells started their dirge.

The men stood, removed their caps and headed for the church wondering who was next but none wanted to be the last man on the bench.