The Long and Short of It

I'm five foot one when I stand straight. I've put on some weight over the years from my under 100 pounds until my thirties. I now weigh in at 58 kilos because I feel thinner when I quote in kilos.

Growing up, I didn't realize that I was short. My ex, whom I dated through high school, was just under six feet, but I didn't wear spike heels, afraid I'd be too tall for him.

I should have suspected I wasn't tall when at high school graduation when we were lined up by size that I was the third person.

Reality struck after university in my first job when I mentioned how tiny a new employee was. Tired of listening, a co-worker had us stand back-to-back. Ooops. She was a couple of inches taller and outweighed me by ten pounds.

My first job in Switzerland, a co-worker who shared the company apartment with me was just under six feet, a beautiful woman who never hunched over to hide her height. We were the Mutt and Jeff of the firm, for those that remember that cartoon.

Between the two of us we were able to discuss the advantages of being short or tall, not that it is something we could have changed.

My tall housemate was upset when my dog peed on her coat, worried the stains wouldn't come out. Of course I paid for the dry cleaning, and the stains disappeared. She explained to me that it was hard for her to find a coat that was long enough including sleeves that went over her wrists. I, on the other hand, was able to buy kids' clothes. However, anything patterned had to be shortened often losing the pattern.

When one is tall, they are seldom thought of as cute and/or adorable. Short people are never described as statuesque. And the cute and adorable label sometimes reduces how seriously a short person is taken. Then again, women are not often taken seriously even when tall, although a tall woman might intimidate a shorter male.

Tall people never need to ask for help to reach a top shelf in a grocery store or put things in an overhead bin in an airplane. Short people can ask for help. I went from being cute to being an older woman that needed help.

Despite this blog, I never really had body-type issues. I am what I am or at least what I thought I was. My tall roommate, too, felt she could flaunt the way she was.

Neither of us are drop-dead beautiful, but neither of us would cause a mirror to crack. At different stages of our lives we maximized our good appearances. Both of us developed our other attributes intellectually, professionally, socially, psychologically.

I do remember one recommendation a co-worker gave to my future employer. When asked if I had any faults after giving me a glowing review his reply was, "She's not very tall." It became a company joke when I was hired.

If I could be reborn, would I want to be tall? Probably not. It might be nice, however, to be able to sing well.

Dribs and Drabs

 

Thoughts that run through my mind.

Gender in Writing

Both my husband and I find toilet reading a pleasure. In our bathroom we have 50 Great Short Stories.

One story is by Hemingway about two men. It is filled with whiskey, wet socks, baseball talk.

The next story is by Dorothy Parker about two women. It is filled with tea sandwiches, and looking at pearls on Fifth Avenue.

Need I say more about gender difference?

CNN and Beige Shoes

Over the past few weeks I've noticed many of the women presenters on CNN have beige shoes rather than shoes that match their suits. Do they wear their own clothes or are they provided for them?

Backgrounds

Ever since Covid and there were more interviews from the interviewee's home, I love looking at the backgrounds. Often it's a bookcase, and it is best when we can read the titles. Sometimes it's a kitchen. I check their appliances. My favorite has been British reporter Polly Toynbee's blue armoire. Great colour (u added because she's British).

Apèro

I love apèros. Last night Danish friends invited Rick and me and two other friends for an apéro. Between us we hold Danish, German, Irish, Egyptian, Swiss and Canadian passports. Rick and I are ex-Americans adding to the international mix. Yummy nibbles of dried meat, anchovies, pickles, salmon, bread sticks and misc. dips topped off by champagne. Best part was the conversation.

Sunrise/Sunset

I can't type those words without thinking of the song of the same title. Today the sun rose at 7:53. So different from the summer when we could go to the beach in at four in the morning and sit on the sand to watch the sun come up. Or walking the dog early. A gift. I love the short days when I can get into PJs, read a book or snuggle up to my husband and watch Netflix.

Clothes

I never got my summer clothes out in France because we spent the summer in Geneva where I have a summer wardrobe. When we came back to France it was a transitional period. Today at 13° I reach for my sweaters. Love the autumn.

Walnuts and Other Fall Goodies

I love the seasonality of food where I live. Grenoble walnuts are about to appear. A variety of apples and pears are replacing the peaches and nectarines. And there are grapes of all colors. There's not a cherry to be found. And it is almost kaki season. Knowing that the veggies and fruits are availble for only a short season makes them special, sorta like a visit from a favorite friend who lives far away.

Our Flats

I love walking through both my Swiss and French flats, appreciating each piece of art work. This tiny cabinet was found in a village antique store. I would love to know about the person who painted it.

Sherlock

When Rick and I applied for our marriage license we had to tell them what we would name our children. Since we were in our 60s and 70s our chances of having kids was minimal, but we chose Adams-Nelson from all possible combinations. At least the clerk could check off the box. When we adopted Sherlock he took that last name.

His vocabulary has increased to many different barks depending what he is telling us. As for his comprehension, when he began to understand English, we switched to French. Now he understands French, we spell. I suspect he won't learn spelling. In the many dogs I've had from dumb to really bright, he's the smartest dog I've ever had and the most communicative. I suspect when we don't respond to him immediately, he thinks we're dumb.

AI

My husband is almost ready to publish his book on A1 and airline training. I use A1 to generate art work BUT ONLY when I wouldn't have paid an artist to do it. AI produced the woman at the top of this blog. It's fun and allows me to illustrate my blog in such detail.

Doppleganger

So nice to see the doppleganger of my father and his 95-year-old mother at the marché this morning. It was summer-tourist crowded.

Visit www.dlnelsonwriter.com.

Why I Write, Read, Blog

 

Why I Read

I read to cram more lives into mine, revisit places I love or discover new ones. 

It's meeting other people in print. I just finished learning how Marie, Janie, Love and Gayle sorted out their lives. Earlier in the week, I watched as a young Donald Trump borrowed a friend’s jacket for a photo so it would like he had more medals than he’s earned.

Later today I need to decide if I want to visit my loved Edinburgh and follow a detective through its well-know streets solving a murder case or visit a library in Paris where I once did a reading. Or maybe I can walk through Damascus and revisit places I’ve seen before. Or maybe I’ll find a new place to “visit” in pages still to be discovered.

I’ll thumb through pages of the waiting books to decide.

So far this year, I’ve read 28,000+ pages in books. I don’t count magazines or news sites.

I’m eagerly waiting my trip to Three Pines in October when Louise Penny’s new novel is published.

In between fiction, I read biography to learn about historical and present day people. At times I’ll even read (shudder) economics to get a better perspective on the world.

Why I Write

It’s an addiction. Stories pop into my head. People move in with me until I can get their activities, problems, successes from my head onto my laptop. 

I’ve retired the heroine of my mystery series Annie, although a friend made a clock for me that shows how she looks. It has crossed my mind to do a short story of her current life with her husband Roger and daughter Sophie.  An artist friend made a clock for me with the image of how we thought Annie looked.

As a little girl, my mother and I would make up double stories with each of us picking up where the other left off. Maybe a variation of that is the Free Write I do weekly with a friend and my husband. Another way to get the creative juices flowing.

Why I Blog

I was amazed when I realized I’d had over one million clicks over time on my blog. It started on a snowy day when I was visiting Boston and wrote in place of a journal which I’d left in Switzerland.

It has become many things including a chance to vent on politics, show appreciation, test out a short story or book chapter, keep my fear at bay while I was going through cancer treatments or whatever is in my head at the moment.

My blog created one amazing reunion with my ex-sister-in-law who read the blog about the death of my brother, her ex. We had lost touch but she found my blog.

The blog is often my warm up for the days writing.

And The Rest of My Life

Don’t think it’s only my imaginary world that fills my days. There’s the joy of living in Southern France and Switzerland, looking at the very different beauty of both places.

 

Although simple, I love our two flats, one a simple studio with a garden that has plum and mulberry trees the other on a well-flowered street. Switzerland is a post card.

It’s communicating with Sherlock and snuggling with my husband as we watch a Netflix. It is the pleasure of his company and sharing our writings, a walk through the village, meeting with friends from many different countries. It’s the smell of popcorn or going to a favorite restaurant especially when we know the staff. 

It’s a thousand small pleasures each day as I bounce in and out of my many lives.

Visit www.dlnelsonwriter.com

Pumpkin

 

It's almost October conjuring up childhood memories of my mother, my brother and me going to a nearby farm for the serious reason to choose our pumpkin for a jack o'lantern.

It would always be at least sweater-wearing cool and there were already red leaves. 

Piles of fallen red and yellow leaves were made for kicking. My father would rake even bigger piles and not complain too much when we jumped in them. He would rerake them before burning, which has since been banned.

We planned our Halloween costumes (one year my grandmother was unhappy when we cut holes in her hand embroidered pillowcases to turn us into ghosts). 

She would bake cookies shaped like witches and pumpkins, and we'd make up trick or treat packages in orange napkins tied with black ribbons. That was before the fear of razor blades and poison in candy made parents check each item given to the trick or treaters.

When I moved to Switzerland in 1990 there was no Halloween traditions. At one job, a Swiss man asked me what it was all about. 

Over the years in October a few pumpkins would be offered. Some children might trick-or -treat...at least in multi-national Geneva, but not many.

Another year, my nine-year old Indian neighbor girl and I searched and found a pumpkin to carve. She decided on a double face -- happy and sad. 

When we are in Southern France, I miss the smell of autumn. It exists in Switzerland, and even if red leaves are scarce, there are lots of yellow leaves. When we do see a red tree, we stop to admire it.

The photo at the top of the page of the Lexington, Massachusetts farm posted on Facebook by a neighbor and classmate back childhood memories and memories of an autumn when my husband and I were visiting his Mom in upstate New York. This place also had fresh pressed apple cider and donuts still warm and crusty from their oven.

I did notice in the marché that there were colored gourds and pumpkins slightly bigger than an acorn squash on streroids. Perhaps next week I'l buy one, do a mini jack o'latern and put a very tea candle inside. I might even toast the seeds for a snack as we watch Netflix making different memories.

Free Write -The Mask

 

Today's prompt was taken at a parade. 

Rick's Free Write - Bird Man

As the parade of costumed characters pranced up the street, playing musical instruments, banging drums, waving to the crowds, he slipped in toward the end with a small group whose appearance resembled his: leather robes, faux fur cape, ragged hats with a witch’s peak, and a leather mask with a long, bird-like beak.

“Who is that?” Alexandrine asked Michel, two of the other three ‘bird people’ marchers.

“Aucune idée,” Michel responded.

Ah, well, she thought. It’s all for fun.

As the paraders turned onto the main commercial avenue, the mystery bird-man started darting in and out of shops, acting crazy, waving his arms and wooden staff wildly, scaring any young children and old women. This continued down the street until they passed the bank, where several tourists were queued up to the outside ATM.

Bird-man went inside, pleased to see no customers.

To the young female clerk, he commanded, “Donne-moi tout l'argent. Si tu cries, j'ai une arme.” He pulled aside his robe to show a gun in his waistbelt.

The clerk screamed anyway as bird-man dashed away with about 2000 Euros in cash.

He made it to the end of the street, three gendarmes in pursuit, and would have escaped except for the quick-thinking village historian, who loosed the rope holding the medieval gate, stopping the bird-man in his size 11 tracks.

D-L's Free Write

Jack hated the stupid bird mask and he was pissed at himself for agreeing to wear it.

Marianne kept telling him marching in the parade was for a good cause. He could have been home watching the Pats on TV and drinking a cold beer. 

God, that mask and vest were hot.

The band ahead of the "birds" was giving him a headache.

He lunged at a little girl, at the edge of the crowd. She started to cry.

Marianne, who wore the same costume and was marching next to him, grabbed his arm and shook her finger at him.

The more he thought about it, he didn't need to do this. His relationship with Marianne had run its course.

At the next intersection, he took a sharp right. Away from the parade and crows, he removed his mask.

Once at his car, he figured Marianne could get her own ride. His watch showed him, he could probably make it from for the second half of the Pats' game. He could almost taste that cold beer.

Julia's Free Write

I almost recognized her there in the lineup.

Impeccable dressed as usual with all the accoutrements.

But what in the world was she doing here – and of all things with a mask of some legendary long-gone scary bird?

I thought she was still in Finland, but I suppose stranger things have happened.

To satisfy my curiosity I sidled closer trying to get a better look – the overcoat and fur collar were in keeping but made recognition more difficult.

Still not 100% able to confirm her identify, I called out “Helga, what are you doing here?’”

No reply, not even the turning of the head. The chap in the background looked at me like I was nuts.

Cutting through the crowd he cornered me and said “Why are you acting like my wife is Helga? Françoise will wonder.”

Oops, not often do I mistake someone’s identity. But then why was “Françoise wearing my old friend’s shoes, watch and even the ring that I had given her 40 years ago?

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

 

 

Lucky Loser - Don the Con Man

 

Just finished Lucky Loser by Pulitizer Prize winning journalists Russ Buettner and Suzanne Craig. They have followed Don the Con for years including looking at his tax returns.

Don the Con's habits started in military school when he borrowed a friend's coat for a photo. The borrowed coat had more medals than his.

His method of operating was always the same.

1. Claim he was going to do something
2. Claim he had more money than he did and not mentioning much came from his father. Even the banks believed him.
3. Not do any due diligence on his projects.
4. Not listen to experts claiming his "instincts" were better.
5. Manipulate the publicity.
6. Have temper tantrums.
7. Blame others when things went wrong.
   

This is the same way he went through his presidency. 

I can understand why some people fall victim to his story. It's a great story by a great manipulator of facts and a great creator of lies.

The problem is when his victims vote for him the entire country and to some extent the world, will suffer.

Shut Up About the Polls Already

 

I am so tired of the polls I could scream  -- in fact I just did, but you probably didn't hear me.

Polls, polls, polls, polls, he's up, she's up, he's down, she's down. If you paint your finger nails pink you are in the group that votes for (fill in the blank, but only if you went to university and can do a cart wheel.)

They poll on what people who think (blank) about the economy. What they should be doing is showing economic figures under misc. presidents and the source. 

Who do you trust? List the lies with proof that a candidate lied and how much. What was the truth.

On and on...give me the facts not what people think about the alleged facts.

Will this ever be over?

The Green Knight as a Family Saga or Joke

Meet Bertilak de Hautdesert of the 14th century poem featuring Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

At uni, I took every Medieval course I could and the poem fascinated me. Only at the end of the poem, (spoiler alert) full of frightening moments and almost beheadings, do we discover that de Hautdesert, Gawain's host and the Green Knight are one and the same.

Fast forward from uni years. I had been divorced and was now a single mom. When I was in Rockport, Massachusetts and I saw a faux suit of armor in a store window, I bought it and wrestled it into the car. Once home, I spray painted it green. Green can be a symbol of fertility which also pleased me.

My daughter when she saw the knight in the corner next to the couch was not impressed that we were the only family she knew that had their own Green Knight. Although she was well-read in the classics, she managed not to read the poem. I had a copy in old English. I didn't blame her.

It became a game between us. She ran her own anti-armor campaign. At Christmas she hung decorations from his eye openings and draped him with tinsel and icicles. She dressed him in scarves, not realizing that sashes were a part of the poem. Any guests were offered the knight, almost to the point where she pleaded with them. There were no takers.

Eventually we moved to Europe and the knight remained in Boston. I have no idea what happened to it. The Green Knight jokes remained part of the family history.

Sometimes I wish I could find another suit of armor and a can of green paint. I know where I would place it in my French flat. I would say nothing to my daughter, but I would have a camera ready when she traveled to visit and walked in to face the new Green Knight. 

We do have a family trandition of giving books on Christmas Eve to one another then going to bed and reading them. As a joke, I could buy her this...

This edition is in the original and with a translation. Of course, I would have a second book, perhaps the new Louise Penny mystery to replace it.

A Tale of Two Fêtes or More

 

Rick and I watch Midsomer Murders in Bed, although I usually fell asleep between the second and third murder and have to wait till morning for him to tell me what happened.

The production of the series is intriguing, especially when the little English village of Midsomer features so many fêtes of all types. (never mind at three murders per episode, there would be few people still alive) I would love to witness the setup of the production as it progressed.

This week our little French village is having a major two-day Medieval Fête. Walls matching the original pirate-protection walls have been going up. Merchants are decorating their store front. Even the grocer has a knight in armor protecting it.

The two-day fête will have music, theatre, displays, games and more. Costumes are on loan for those wanting to dress up, although I will wear my wedding dress. Rick's costume from that day is back in the U.S. but he has arranged for one.

I can hardly wait. I doubt there will be three murders.

 

 

 

My father's heart surgery

 

My housemates met me as I came through Boston Logan Airport after my European holiday. "You need to go to Maine," they said. My father had had a heart attack.

I found him in bed and he told me he needed bypass surgery. He also told me he'd thrown a priest out of his room, but was impressed with the Salvation Army officer.

Neither my beloved stepmom or myself could talk him out of going back to Florida for the operation.

Uncle Pat and Aunt Alma, who had moved to Florida the week before, flanked us throughout. 

As typical of our family, we were able to relieve the tension with a trip to the hotel pool and good meals. Uncle Pat, a meat and potatoes man and ex-FBI, teased me about my love of avocados.

Minutes while waiting for my dad to come out of surgery, were hours long, but finally Dr. Patel appeared. "Let's find a room, where we can talk." The four of us followed him to filled room after filled room.

I could stand it no longer and I blurted out, "Is he alive?" 

"Yes," he said finding a corner to brief us. "You can see him now."

We were ushered into the recovery room. My Dad lay on a gurney, looking smaller and whiter than I ever remembered. They whipped off his sheet leaving the man whom I adored, stark naked. "I now see from whence I came," I said.

My Dad lived another four years and we shared more good memories. I wrote Dr. Patel to thank him for saving my father. 

Knowing my father wasn't immortal made each of those new moments together special in the same way sharing those awful moments with my stepmom, aunt and uncle as we waited for my father to have his heart redesigned, were special.

All of them are gone now but never from my heart.

 

Free Write -- What's in a name?

 

 

       Famous Thomas People and Trains

Both Geneva and Argelès-sur-mer were windy for today's Free Write. Julia was in Geneva. Rick and D-L were in the south of France. We managed to do it at the same time more or less, still not as much fun as together, but a spur to our individual creativity. The prompt was the name Thomas. The word doubt(ing) popped up for all three of us.

D-L's Free Write

Sixty-seven year old Thomas Masters Sullivan hated his name. He always had from his mother calling "Tommy-Baby" to his dad's "Tom-Tom." The neighborhood bully, Jason March started calling him Pom-Pom, which had stuck through high school graduation.

At unversity, he thought of using his middle name, but who wanted to be named for a golf tournament? He settled on T.M. Sullivan although sometimes people called him Tim. 

T.M. had a career as a thriller writer. He made sure his full name was never on any cover and never discussed.

After a doctor told him his time was limited to months, he ordered his tombstone with T.M.  Sullivan and his birthdate. "Someone will get back to you with the other date," he told the carver.

Now he was waiting for his publicist to work on his death announcement.

Part of him wondered if sometime in the future a Ph.D. student would dig up his full name.

He doubted he could control that.

Julia's Free Write

His mind was seething – a totally mixed up mumble/jumble of thoughts.

Did he want to do this, or that? Or should he let it go?

This, of course will not help a reader to understand what is going on – and that’s ok. Do we always need to understand everything we hear or see?

One thing was very clear: there was a total lack of motivation, an absence of any drive, and not a shade of ambition.

Would it be a major accomplishment? A piece of art? A story that would be translated or go down in history?

Or would it only be something that upon his leaving the world as he knew it, to be thrown in the trash along with everything else that he had accumulated, seen by no one, cherished by none?

Well, time to get a start – on something, anything. This going around in circles certainly was not productive, was it? See, yet again a question. That seemed to be his current life.

Again, his mind darted in all directions as he contemplated the possibilities. To do, or not to do.

Only a doubting Thomas could face the challenge – and Thomas he was!

Rick's Free Write

Who / what comes to mind?

Thomas the Tank Engine, with whom my grandson played for hours. Thomas’s friends were James and Percy, and I forget the girl engine’s name.

Thomas Aquinas, Catholic saint, though I don’t know why.

Tom Thumb.

Tom Selleck.

Tom Hanks.

Tom ‘Terrific’ Seaver, NY Mets Hall of Fame pitcher.

Danny Thomas.

Marlo Thomas.

Tom (cat), frenemy of Jerry (mouse)

Tom, a friend in school, last name forgotten.

Tom, who worked for me as an artist, vacationed in Alaska, and stayed.

Tom Weiskopf, golfer.

Tom Watson, another golfer.

Justin Thomas, another golfer.

Doubting Thomas, Jesus’s disciple.

Thomas the car dealer who speaks some English and who sold me the car I hate.

Thomas Jefferson.

It’s not a name that suggests stature or fame. Thomases have been mostly supporting cast in the theatre of history. At least the history I have learned.

A somewhat ordinary name, though I’m sure not to them. Or their mothers.

Tom-tom, a drum.

Thomasina, a Disney cat.

I’m reaching the limit of my memory.

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 His book, the Robot in the Simulator about AI in aviation is in production.

 

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com Her non-fiction book 300 Unsung Women and the anthology The Corporate Virgin are at the publishers.

 

Homework

 

There's been controversy whether kids should or should not have homework, if so at what stage. I see programs and know people who sit down with their children to do their homework or nag their kids until they do it. Amazing.

I only had parental help with homework once. Then it was grandparental. We'd moved from Massachusetts to West Virginia and my mother found the schools wanting and arranged for me to go a private school. 

However, even in first grade I was way behind. My grandmother took charge and within a month I knew my times tables through 12 and was reading at a third grade level. She made the math part fun, the only time in my life.

As for the reading, I was thrilled to escape the "Run Dick. See Dick run..." for books that were interesting.

Back in Massachusetts, I never remember my parents helping me with homework or even telling me to do it. It was my responsibility and my job was to get good grades and to do the best I could.

In Boston, I was lucky my daughter passed the exam for Boston Latin, the first school in the United States. Harvard was founded for its graduates. It saved me paying for private school

Boston Latin has produced several early presidents, nobel prize winners, writers, musicians and more. Graduate John King of CNN had just begun his career when my daughter began walking Latin's hall.

The curriculum was demanding and homework was required. A lot. Even in the summer, students were given a reading list of 100 books and expected to read 10 which would be tested on in September. I'm sure many of these books are banned in the south.

Since everyone in the house read out of choice, it was never a problem. We might discuss my daughter's choice more on the "What are you reading now?" and we'd exchange titles or not, depending. 

If I asked about homework, it was more on the line "do you have time to do...or do you have too much homework."

Like my mother had told me, I told her, homework was her responsibility. If she wanted to go to university, she needed good grades. 

It might have been easier because part of the time I was in grad school along with working. One of my housemates was working on her undergraduate degree along with working and our studies were often a subject of dinner discussion.

At one point my daughter and housemate were both reading Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea for a course. They both hated the book. When they finished we bought a Cavel Cake to celebrate.

Unless a child has a problem with a subject, I still do not see a reason for parent involvement. Then they might help or hire a tutor. 

I can see a parent supplementing the studies if it is a bad school system but more like exploring historical sites, museums etc. along with movies, amusement parks, nature walks, skating, whatever depending on time and budget. 

If a child fails to do his/her homework, s/he'll have to deal with the teacher. Is s/he gets bad grades that's when a tutor or punishment steps in. It's the type of situtation the child, when it becomes an adult, will have to deal with in the real world. And that maybe the best lesson from the home.

Free Write -- Fish and Sharks

Today's Free Write, a photo of playground fish and sharks, presented extra challenges. How each of the three writers tackled it, was interesting. Two of us are still in France, one in Switzerland but Tuesday morning Free Writes are sacrosant despite any geographic distance.

Julia's Free Write and her prompt

AS HE WALKED past the playground on his way to meet someone in the local coffee shop, he was not running at his usual pace, he had more time for once in his life, to look around and take in the scenery.                                 

Parents had started to gather discreetly so obviously school would soon release its horde of children.                                                      

The odd sweater and jacket were slung over toys, left behind when they were discarded.

An old sequoia tree stood in one corner – on its own and how did it survive?

He stopped a moment and chuckled to himself: now who in their right mind would think that ceramic sharks and fish would make good playground toys?  Did the children even notice them?

A bright pink “fish” and a lovely pale blue “fish” were even kissing – wonder whose idea that was? What was the story? Who had the imagination?

He wandered on, thinking yet again of the vagaries of the human spirit – hoping that the originator of the idea was not somewhere else dealing with real fish and sharks, but that they had kept their sense of humor.

D-L's Free Write 

RUDY WAS A red-spotted fish who lived with his parents and sister Merry. She was blue and hard to see in the blue water.

Merry was always bossing Rudy around and he didn't like it one bit. His parents didn't help. "Take care of your little brother," they would tell Merry.

"Don't!" was Merry' favorite word. Today she told him "don't" leave the area and swim in the big sea.

Rudy ignored her. He loved the big sea with all the other fish, clams and even lobsters.

This day he was alone, which was strange. Then he saw Freddy, the Shark, swimming toward him.

"I'm hungry," Freddy growled.

Rudy twisted and turned and tried to hide behind some sea grass, but Freddy kept calling, "Come here breakfast."

"Ouch!!!" Freddy screamed suddenly. Rocks kept falling on his head.

From his hiding place, Rudy could see Merry pelting rocks on Freddy, who swam away.

Merry joined her little brother. "You never listen to me. I should have let Freddy eat you."

Rudy remembered his manners. "Thank you, Sis."

"Maybe next time you'll listen to me.

Rudy wiggled his fins in agreement as he thought, "Maybe not."

Rick's Free Write - 4 Fishes

Penelope Pinkfish and Bruce Bluefish loved their life swimming around the children’s playground. They adored the shrieks and laughter of the pre-schoolers who burst upon the park during the day, and who would climb on their backs, pretending to ride the fishes through the blue and turquoise ‘waves’ underneath.

One morning, before any children had shown up, they were smooching mouth to mouth, totally oblivious to anything around them – because they thought there was nothing else in their private, blissful world. They did not see Snarky the Shark lurking in the shadows, sneaking up on Bruce from behind.

Snarky and Bruce had a long history, going back to the time Bruce had warned a stray dog that Snarky was about to bite his tail.

As Snarky got closer, Yannick Yellowpuffer spotted him, and wanted to sound an alarm, but he was so nervous all he could do was blow air bubbles.

Penelope noticed something out of the corner of her eye and paused her smooching. “What’s wrong?” Bruce asked.

Just then a rambunctious three-year-old girl jumped on the back of Snarky and grabbed his fin. “Yee-haw,” she shouted.

Penelope and Bruce, realizing they had barely escaped danger, swam away to a safe distance. Yannick was still blowing bubbles. 

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