Free Write - Red and Green Chandeliers

 

Three writers: One prompt, three very different free writes.

Prompt: So much red. So much green. Seven enormous chandeliers.

D-L's Free Write

Paul and Anne stared at the ceiling which was painted with lords and ladies dancing.

"Look," Anne said. "Seven red and green chandeliers."

"Wow," Paul said.

Boring, thought their 15-year old daughter Emma. She was so tired of being dragged through stately homes and historical sites.  Never have college professors for parents.

She wandered out of the room into a smaller chamber. Smaller was relative with its canopied, four-poster bed and a fireplace that could hold another queen-sized bed.

On the bed was the most handsome boy she'd ever seen and who was asleep. He stirred.

"Who are you?" they asked together.

He rolled off the bed as she explained. "Our campground has tennis courts and two pools, but oh no my parents drag me here."

"Which campground?" he asked

"Three Pines."

"Me too. I'm Evan. Want to play tennis when we escape this?"

Maybe, Emma thought, the vacation wouldn't be so bad after all.

Rick's Free Write

So much red…

I had never seen so much gold leaf in my life. It was layered on nearly everything in every room. The red fabric wall coverings. The decorator vases. The railings of the staircase. (Though not the blood-red carpet on the stairs or the dark red rugs through the hallways.)

We were visiting the Winter Palace of the Czar in St. Petersburg, courtesy of our hostess who had arranged the travel papers to get us into Russia and an apartment for the week (displacing her son). We toured other palaces and museums as well, all full of gilt and vermillion trappings. Two places a day, in fact. The itinerary was exhausting.

When we got to customs at St. Pete (formerly Leningrad) airport, I was concerned, as an American, that they would not allow me in the country. After being permitted to cross the line, I was concerned they would not let me leave. (This was a few years ago – before Putin started kidnapping American journalists to hold them for ransom.)

As we walked through the palace on a private tour, we entered a long rectangular room, obviously used for the type of ballroom dancing scenes you would see in biopics. More red. More gold. And, as I looked up – seven enormous chandeliers. I wonder if the dancers use them as a guide for where to twirl? 

Julia's Free Write

It was enormous, I’m tempted to say cavernous, this room.

He looked around, tried to take in the wealth, then tried to imagine.

There was all the red; if he took that would things end badly?

But oh the gold was so tempting – harder perhaps to smuggle out.

Looking upwards, he counted: seven gigantic chandeliers: the crystals on only one would bring a very good price, but without the equipment there was no way that he could access any of them.

Then he saw it: a small mosaic low on the floor with about 20 rubies.

In a flash his multi-purpose flat metal tool was out of his collar (the metal detector had only been waste-high and he carried no back pack) and pried the jewels loose.

Into his chest sling and he was gone – a cool million. And no b bloodshed!

It was later called the heist of the decade.

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: https://dlnelsonwriter.com

 

 

 

Intolerance for Intolerance

I'm growing more intolerant of intolerance.

I grew up in a household where my mother believed anyone who wasn't a WASP if not inferior, was at least less than a WASP on a human scale. The intolerance reared its ugly head when I wanted to go to a movie with a Catholic boy. We were 15, and it was obvious to my mother that the movie could lead to marriage and grandchildren praying to the Pope.

Other than that my mother was an intelligent woman.

I don't care the religion. Your sacred is NOT my sacred. I could also say my sacred is not your sacred, but I won't get my knickers in a twise if you step on my sacred.

The bruhaha over the alleged mocking of the Last Supper is the latest example. I see no difference about that than a Muslim going balistic over a painting of Allah. Well there is a slight difference. People were shot at a newspaper that did the portrait.

The moment I saw that part of the Olympics, I said to my husband, "That will drive the American Christians nuts." To be fair some French Christians and a few Brits also objected.

There are five major religions in the world. 

• Christianity
• Judaism
• Islam
• Buddhism
• Hinduism.

Each has subgroups. 

To people who find solace and comfort in a religion, I'm truly happy for you. However, keep it to yourself and if someone steps on your sacred try and understand that they don't believe in your sacred. 

Leave intolerant me alone.

Point of View

 "5"

"7" 

 "5"

"7" 

 "5"

"7" 

One American woman and one Romanian man argued about how many continents there were. 

The Romanian spoke seven languages, was drop-dead handsome and had a Ph.D. in flirting. He kept saying there were only five continents.

The American woman finally named them: North America, South  America, Africa Europe, Asia, Australia and Antarctica.

"That's the problem," the man said. North and South America are one continent, and Europe and Asia are one continent and there's that ice thingie at the bottom of the planet."

They both had an English friend who in any discussion with a varying point of view would say, "define your terms."

Defining a continent as a land mass made the Romanian correct. The Americas are connected as are Europe and Asia. 

The American was right if one applied human described political distinctions. 

It's all in the point of view. In this case, it doesn't matter what we call a continent. They are just there.

 

Our Local Ghost

 Château Rouelbeau's fallen walls allow for a wonderful view of Mont Blanc and other Alps.

Locals talk about La Blonde or La Dame Blanche, the ghost of Humbert de Choulex's wife. He divorced her when she didn't produce a son. The couple lived in the Rouelbeau Castle, whose ruins are a short drive from our home in Vandoeuvres, Switzerland.

The Choulex couple were the first residents of the château built around 1318. It sits on a rise, surrounded by farmland and water, too narrow to serve as a protective moat but great for hearing the song of spring peepers or growing loosestrife and cat and nine tails. 

The castle was 52m(171ft) by 39m(128 ft) in width with thick walls. Its four corners had circular towers. Today, only parts of the wall remain. The center is a grassy area where our dog loves to play. Once we scattered flower seeds, but the birds must have feasted because none sprouted.

Sightings of the ghost go back to the 19th century. We've heard she appears on Christmas Eve, but others say if you want to see her, any full moon at midnight will do.

Our family celebrates Christmas Eves by giving books.  Then we go to bed to read them. The idea of going to meet the ghost instead could be fun...or not.

My husband said there were three things that would happen if we went on the ghost safari. 

• We'd fall asleep and miss the ghost.
  
• We'd stay there and nothing.
• The ghost would appear and scare the sh-t out of us.
  

We go to the château regularly with the dog, his treats and a ball, but ALWAYS on a sunny, ghostless day.

 

Inefficient, Stupid and Safe

It took 4.6 million man hours to build the 11.6 meter Mont Blanc tunnel running under the Alp before it opened in 1965.

The mountain, itself is something we see almost every day, weather permitting, when we walk the dog or sit on a bench after checking the donkeys in a nearby field.

Its white peaks poke up over other mountains.

Thus when we decided to go to Aosta, Italy on the other side. We would go through the mountain.

The drive through the postcard beautiful scenery was a given. Only when we learned there was a 45 minute wait to enter the tunnel, did we question the wisdom.

However, there was still the scenery to look at. We played a word game taking the name from a truck next to us and seeing how many words we could make from the letters. Where I might find many three, four, five letter words, my husband found words like pattern and tennis.

Proceding at a pace where a caterpillar could outrun us, we reached the manned toll both, but the cars were halted for a time longer than believable to pay the 54.10 Euros even if it involved waiting for change.

Imagine the pollution from all those idling cars.

We were use to the super-efficient French autoroute with our Vinci allowing us to zip through toll booths. Even if we forgot to attach the Vinci to the windscreen, a credit card or change basket only takes a minute before we'd be on our way.

Only when writing this blog did I discover why.

In 1999, a truck caught fire in the tunnel killing  39 people. After two years, it was reopened, but with the goal of regulating how many people could go through the tunnel at the same time, making a similar tragedy impossible. That explained why the people in the toll booth were so slow.

It was mini-lesson in humbleness and not jumping to a conclusion without all the facts.

Birthdays

24 July, 1942, 17:23 CET, Aosta, Italy

24 July, 1942, 11:23 EST, Winchester, MA

 

I hung onto being 81 as long as possible, telling Rick, my husband, that I knew the time I was born, and officially my age wouldn't change until after the exact anniversary that I took my first look at life outside my mother's womb. I adjusted the time because I live on a different continent in a different time zone.

I didn't know the time, I was created, other than my father came home for lunch on an October day. Later, I was to learn that I was a rhythm, diaphram and condom failure. No wonder, I've been called stubborn.

To celebrate my 82nd, we drove from Geneva, Switzerland to Aosta, Italy. The Alps, some snow covered, cascades, racing white foamy streams and thick forests were a gift in themselves.

Close to 17:00 CET, Rick suggested we go to the small café in the hotel. It had cases of pastries, each a work of art. Despite my love of chocolate, I selected an apple tarte. He found a small cake with three kinds of layered chocolate.

We chatted about what we'd seen since arrival and what we wanted to see before departure the next day. Roman ruins were high on the list. 

The waitress, dressed in the required black slacks and white blouse, arrived. The other waitress and the manager were with her.

She carried my tarte with a yellow and white candle on top.

It was 17:23.

I was/am officially 82 with another year ahead of me.

All Fertile Women--Your Life Is In Danger

 

If the Republicans have their way, every fertile woman will be in danger of dying. Not just because abortion will be illegal everywhere, but medical treatment in emergencies may be withheld by doctors in fear of the law.

J.D. Vance's stance is no abortion, no way, no how. He could well be the next president.  He also thinks that women in abusive relationships should stay with their abuser. If the over- weight and sometimes deranged Trump cannot finish his term, Vance would be president. No woman can afford that danger.

Women get pregnant often by accident:

• Contraception fails (and that might be limited in the future too.)
  
• Rape
• Incest
• Carelessness
• Ignorance
  

In writing Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles about pre-Roe v Wade alternatives for women who needed an abortion, I heard of so many stories of which these are a few:

• A woman who had five children and couldn't afford a sixth went for an abortion. She died.
  
• A woman was aborted on a table top covered with dirty newspapers. The abortionist made a pass at her, but she lived.
  
• A woman bled to death in a do-it-yourself abortion.
• A little girl, whose mother died of an abortion, grew up being shuttled from relative to relative.

In states where people want a referendum the Republican legislators find reasons not to put the issue to the people.

There are states where there is talk of tracking women's cycles.

There are states where leaving the state for an abortion is illegal as is helping a woman to do the same.

No matter what a woman's economic status is, no matter if she is married or single, no matter how old she is, no matter if she wants the child or not but medical reasons means she shouldn't carry it to term, no matter if the fetus is not viable, that woman's life is in danger. Iy you are an American woman your life could be in danger.

VOTE BLUE! YOUR LIFE MAY DEPEND ON IT!

Free Write-On a String

The deflated horse balloon hung on a tree in the woods in a Swiss village. We three writers sat on the terrace. Sherlock, our dog, delighted at seeing Julia, ate a croissant as we picked up our pens to write for ten minutes. The prompt was the photo above.

Rick's Free Write - On a String

It was Jimmy’s first school-related birthday party, and it didn’t go well. First, he didn’t understand why he should, on a weekend, go somewhere to be with classmates, most of whom he didn’t care to be with Monday through Friday. Second, he had to take more time out of playing video games to go with his mother to buy a present for Johanna, one of the classmates he liked least.

He picked out a balloon of a horse. Not some girly thing. More neutral. He liked horses, except for the steaming piles of shit they left in the road. The balloon wouldn’t do that.

At promptly 2 pm, like a good Swiss, Jimmy and his mother showed up at Johanna’s house, along with seven other classmates, six girls, one other boy, Gunther, Johanna’s favorite. They were all bouncing and shouting when Johanna opened the door. “Felicitations.” “Happy Birthday.” The international group was bilingual from birth.

Jimmy sat by himself on an uncomfortable chair for most of the party. The rest of the group ignored him until it was time for the presents.

“What’s this?!” Johanna asked in a somewhat disgusted tone.

“It’s a unicorn,” Jimmy said.

“No, it’s not. It doesn’t have a horn,” said Gunther.

“He chewed it off,” Jimmy shot back.

When the party broke up, Johanna shoved the balloon string in Jimmy’s hand. “I don’t want it.”

***

I found the balloon in bushes near the fawn forest. Thinking a child had lost it, I tied it to the pole.

D-L's Free Write

"What the hell?" Detective Malone looked at the deflated horse balloon hanging on the tree in the wood.

Underneath was the body of a 30-year-old (more or less) woman. In her hand she held a string attached to the balloon.

This was the third body and balloon found in the past month.

"Another?" Virginie, the Medical Examiner, slipped down the slope to where Malone stood.

Two weeks later Malone had talked to every balloon dealer in the area: wholesale, retail and those that sold balloons at fetes and fairs.

He decided to stake out the balloon sellers at the 4th of July Parade.

A man, well dressed, stopped to buy a balloon. He went behind a tree and released the helium.

He bought two more horse balloons from other sellers.

At his signal, his men moved in an captured the man with three deflated horse balloons.

At the station, the man asked for a lawyer.

Six months later he was sentenced for three murders.

Tied to a tree, upside down on top of it, what an injustice!

Julia's Free Write

How did it come to this? Where did it all go wrong?

After having been created I was shipped off, so far from where I was born. Locked in a box, in the hold of either a ship or an airplane: I couldn’t really tell except for the fact that there was mouvement.

Off loaded and another long journey by either car or truck – and still prisoner of the dark – I again changed positions.

Blinded by the sudden light, I lasted only an hour before I was again shoved into a large sack – off to the countryside.

When I next saw the light of day, I felt my whole being fill, fill and fill with hot air.

Just as I was thinking that my life had improved, I was “strung & hung” upside down to a pole in a field in the middle of nowhere.

What next for the poor balloon in the shape of a horse?

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: https://dlnelsonwriter.com

 

Franglais and bilingualism.

 

I hear Americans tell someone speaking anything but English to speak English, they are in America.
My brother did it to me when I was talking to a French waiter in French.

I always find that ignorant. I feel sorry for them because they are losing out on another culture never mind using more of their brain cells.

Today this passage (see below) was on Facebook from a Syrian friend. I didn't realize it was in two languages until I was into the second paragraph.

I live in more than one language or maybe more: English, French, Franglais, British English and Bostonian. I have a Frigo and a Fridge, a vac, hoover, aspirator, and I wear sneakers, baskets and trainers.

My dog is bilingual. We have to spell both ice cream and glace and many other words.

Because I live in Geneva, being multi-lingual is normal. Most of my friends speak several languages, and I'm seldom at a gathering where only one language is spoken. Often, on the bus a child and parent each speak a different language to each other, yet they understand perfectly.

Some couples from different mother tongues have said how when they can't get their partner to understand in one language, they can try in the second. Sometimes, however, misunderstandings occur, which can be funny -- or not.

I do like the line about being an absolute genius to understand the article. I won't tell the writer what a fight I had to become functional in French, nor will I mention how much of my German, I've forgotten. No genius.

This is the passage. I have put the French in italics, but I have not marked many words that are the same in both languages.

Being bilingual est parmi the best pleasures dans le monde entier. Think about it pour un instant.

 

You can utiliser deux different languages en même temps in a such a way that makes ton cerveau wants to exploser from the speed par la quelle it switches from one langue to l'autre but still tu peux do it and ressentir spécial(e) at the same time, et c'est pour ça you are unique.

 

Le fact that tu peux lire this article without stopping to think est un talent très few people have.

 

La majorité of people struggle to lire juste in one single language, but what you are doing maintenant est un signe of absolute genius. Reading a très complicated texte in two langues différentes seamlessly makes you un(e) nerd et someone qui trouve joy in languages.

 

Now I want you to ask yourself des très simple questions: what makes you comprendre un texte like this? Did you apprendre les deux langues separately? Did you grow up dans une famille bilingue?

 

Quelle langue do you think in more as you lis ce texte? What langue are you more fluent in? leave ta réponse in a comment s'il vous plaît.

 

Mais, being bilingual has disadvantages aussi. Par exemple, te ne peux plus spell words anymore, knowing deux langues really messes up your spell checking abilities.

 

Est-ce-on dit centre or center, you never know anymore.

 

Furthermore, des fois there the same word in French et en Anglais but they have des meanings totalement différentes. If you order an entrée in French you'll get salad, mais en Anglais you'll get un steak.

 

Si tu want a petite bite of something, ne le dis pas en Français because you just requested a little penis instead of small bite.

 

Be careful s'il vous plaît, words are tricky.

Other times, you can be an asshole par erreur. 

 

Let me explain.

 

Being bilingual means you have une responsabilité to remember qui parle quelle langue.

 

Parce que you don't want to be rude and leave anyone out of la conversation.

 

Reading cet article must have given your brain a nice little workout. That's why you should le partager avec vos amis sur Facebook. De rien in advance and have a très bonne journée/nuit.

 

Note:  D-l Nelson is an American born Swiss-Canadian who has had 17 books published. Visit her website at www.dlnelsonwriter.com

Reading, Riting no Rithemetic

 

In the last couple of weeks, I've been on Boston Common, Jamica Plain and Revere as I turned the pages of a Tess Gerritsen Novel.

I've walked with Zelensky in the Ukraine. 

Last night, I was feeling the surgery of soldiers blown apart in Vietnam. The smell of the blood, the red dust everywhere felt real. Songs mentioned brought back my life in the sixties.

Someone once said, "reading lets you live other lives."

In between books, I'm living a life. 

My Geneva village is lush from all the rain. Walks to where the horses and donkeys graze, the mulberries in the garden, the view of Mont Blanc, and the corn stalks growing by the day add to my life.

My working on my novel, memoir and non-fiction book occupies part of my time. Holding hands with my husband as we watch a Netflix film with the dog next (or between us) add so much to my life.

Our free writes in a café with my husband and friend are a joy as are meeting up with other friends, some of whom were once part of my daily life and now are meet-ups for a meal and/or chats.

It all helps to negate to the horror of what I'm watching in my birth country. It is hard to watch the violence, the lies, the rhetoric, the undoing of things I so believed in, of things I worked for. 

I was an active citizen besides voting. I demonstrated. Depending on the issue, I called my legislators (state and federal). I lobbied for laws at the Massachusetts State House. I didn't hit the legislator who asked, "What does a cute little girl like you care about this?" He was referring to the equal rights amendment. I was a single mom in my mid-thirties.

I fear for every fertile woman in the U.S. I spent a depressing year plus writing Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles, about the history of abortion to know it will never be stopped.

Books do not help me when I take a shower, and I think of all the people in Gaza who do not have the luxury. 

When I buy fresh veggies at the marché, I'm grateful that I have enough to eat.

I can do nothing about the horrors of the world. I can do nothing about my birth country's decline. I'm only a speck in the universe, one living her own life and many others through reading.

Free Write The Vets

Today's prompt is the sign from our vet's office. All three of us have taken our beloved pets there. The office is on a plaza that included a tea room.

Rick's Free Write VET

I know this place. That’s a new sign. And they’ve finally gotten rid of the construction mess. But it’s the same diabolical building where they take me to be tortured every time I act like I don’t feel well. Is it my fault I eat interesting things off the ground, even though I have no idea what they are?

Inside there are always other dogs in the waiting room. Not always friendly. Though I have sniffed a couple of nice butts from time to time.

Then Mom and Dad take me into a smaller room with a cold metal table that’s hard to stand on. I’m always slipping and sliding. If I try to lay down, the vet du jour picks me up and sticks a thermometer in my you-know-what. They poke in my ears with something else. Then inevitably they stick a needle in my back. I have to admit it doesn’t hurt as much as I pretend.

When we leave, the nice lady tries to give me biscuits, but I reject them on principle.

I like the other doctor we go to in Argeles, Paul, but only a little. He’s pretty good with a needle too. But when he sticks his finger up my hoo-ha, well, hoo-haaa is all I can say.

He has a big, big, big, big dog in the office, but he’s old (the dog, not Paul; well, come to think of it, Paul too).

I think I’ll pee on this sign.

D-L's Free Write

Damian and Majorie went thru vet school together and became buddies. Each had a lover; well Damian had many. Majorie married hers.

Neither could remember when they decided to go into practice together.

Immediately after graduation, they went to work for vets. On their days off they searched villages for one that was vetless.

They found an agency that specialized in medical practices. Fred, the owner, showed them many over their limited budgets, their parents help and Marjorie's small inheritance from her grandmother.

On their sixth visit, they were greeted by two old women who were stereotypical granny types. 

"We need to retire,"

The price was low enough. A look at the books confirmed their decision.

There was no money for a professional remake, but Damian and Majorie were able to paint it. Damian's brother-in-law, was an electrician. They were able to find a credit plan that allowed them to buy up-to-date furniture and equipment.

The opening included an open house. It took several months, but slowly locals brought their dog, cats, rabbits and even a hedgehog. Damian even delivered a calf.

It would work. 

Julia's Free Write

A blank, I’ve hit a blank – I, who am verbose, I who can write almost anything, anytime have hit a blank.

Looking around me I see people enjoying their mid-morning coffee, tea or soft drink on this lovely terrace next to a local primary school. I am very aware of my surroundings, even hearing children in the background, never mind noticing the steady stream of traffic on the nearby street.

Then a dog barks, and without looking I am transported 16 years back to a similar day.

That day did not have a happy ending. It ended in great sorrow whilst my younger son, accompanied by a good friend, were present as our cat was put out of his suffering. I sat in the waiting room with my older son unable to face the loss.  The vet’s office is still there; Munchkin lives on in my heart.

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: https://dlnelsonwriter.com

 

 

Finding prompts

 

I've been an advocate of free writing (FW) for years to stimulate my other writing. Thank you to Nathalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones.

Alone is one way: I pick up a pen and write for ten minutes. More fun is doing it with another writer(s).

In November, Flashnano issues a prompt a day on Facebook. November has become my most creative month because of it.

Some FWs can be turned into flash fiction.

My first FW partner was a French friend who has a Masters in creative writing from a Florida university. When her work schedule made meetings impossible, my husband, also a writer, and I declared Tuesdays sacred for a FW session. 

We've been joined by a friend. Comparing the three efforts after the ten minutes of writing to a prompt is fascinating. Sometimes we overlap in our observations but other times...? One would think we were writing on different planets. 

We alternate who delivers the prompts. 

Where do we get the prompts? 

If we FW in a café we find a "victim" and when s/he is out of earshot, we start our 10 minutes. If there are no "victims" we will select a random sentence from a book or we might also use a sign, a piece of furniture, a building, anything within our visual range.

If one of us can't join, we will send the prompt by email to the missing writer. I post all three FWs on my blog weekly.

My husband and I will often spot something as we wander and photograph it for future prompts. Ideally, it is best to start writing immediately after a prompt is identified, but there should not be any hard and fast rules. A backlog of possible prompts is FW security.

FWs can be like the scales a musician practices or the warm up before a run.

I consider writing daily necessary for my craft. Blogs, which sometimes start as FWs, can serve the purpose as well as FWs.  I think of the quote of Jascha Heifetz. “If I don't practice one day, I know it; two days, the critics know it; three days, the public knows it.” 

Granted, a musical performance is different from a written piece, but the concept holds true.

Note: visit www.dlnelsonwriter.com

Free write -- Freedom

  

Prompt: It's Wednesday in the middle of my freedom. Julia, Rick and I are back outside at the Vandoeuvres boulangerie with our coffee, tea and pastries. This time Julia and I came up with similar pieces, but Rick's was totally different. That's part of the fun of these 10-minute exercises.

D-L's Free Write

It's Wednesday in the middle of my freedom. Jason was on a business trip, and Maggie had left for university. My office was closed for a week. 

It was just me and the dog Pita (Pain in the ass).

Monday and Tuesday I used to do a mega clean. Things stayed clean with no one to mess them up.

I woke Wednesday morning with birds providing a choir outside. I had considered cleaning the garage.  Pita jumped on the bed. He's 15-pounds of who knows what breed.

Wait a minute, I thought. I'm on my own. No meals to cook. I'm free. I showered then shove tooth and hair brushes along with underwear into my backpack.

"Pita, get in the car." He did, and we headed up 93 into the wilds of New Hampshire. 

It was between summer tourists and the fall leaf peepers.

At Hampton Beach I walked on the sand. Pita ran up and down. The only other person was a fisherman.

I decided to find a B&B and read until evening when I'd look for a restaurant. I revelled in being totally free until Saturday.

Julia's Free Write

He was at a loss…

On the one hand life was wonderful, full of work, friends, leisure. Activities: on the other these same attributes had him wondering what to do with all that time.

Vacation means having fun, relaxing, doing what one wants – right?

So why after only two days was he floundering? Had he really gotten so into a rut that he could no longer think on his own? What would his long-gone wife had made of this situation?

His older son and family had left for their holidays, so no grandchildren to entertain; his younger son and fiancé had also departed.

His house? Sorted and in shape during the first two days of what he thought of as his vacation. Oh yes, there were photos, letters and files still needing sorting, but of course there always would be.  Even the plants were watered, the lawn mowed abd the last game of the Euro played.

Here he was, Wednesday in the middle of his freedom with nothing more to do!

Rick's Free Write

Wednesday, in the middle of my freedom

Sleeping on the floor in the Atlanta airport was not part of the plan. Sleeping on the floor two nights in a row definitely was not.

I had just qualified for a week’s vacation, having worked at the company for a year, and I’d booked the travel package to Florida months ago. Who knew that the earliest hurricane in history would come roaring up the East Coast just after I’d boarded my flight from Omaha to Dallas. I suppose I could have called it off at DFW, as I sat watching the radar of the massive storm Aidan barreling toward the Keys. But there’d be no refund with the budget charter airline, and I couldn’t afford another. Nor would I be granted more time off from work. (I wouldn’t qualify for two weeks until I’d worked there for three years.)

This was my one week of freedom!

So I’d soldiered on to Atlanta on the bumpiest flight imaginable – the flight attendants even refused to provide beverage service. And when I landed at Hartsfield I learned that Aidan had veered west across central Florida, and all flights throughout the Southeast were grounded.

No money for a hotel, though I doubt I could have found an empty room. I wasn’t the only one. All the benches and chairs in the terminal were taken. At least I managed to find a patch of carpet. Which I lost to some burly bearded guy when I went to the toilet.

Maybe there’d be a flight to Tampa later this afternoon, they said. Hey, at least I’m not working, right?

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: https://dlnelsonwriter.com