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.