Ryan Air, with its luggage limitations explained all as she described coming back from Ireland.
We were sitting in the cafe Aqui se Be, because our usual meeting place to free write after finding a trigger, La Noisette, is on holiday.
The waitress set down our hot chocolate and ginger biscuits. Almost no one was walking by the window and the few that braved the wind were huddled in scarves and hats hiding their faces. Normally, we would pick a person and make up a story for ten minutes. Another trigger is a line in a book.
At our last session the stories we produced were almost identical in plot and tone even though the trigger could have allowed for anything. It was as if we were stomping around in the creative part of each other's brain.
"Rocks," I said. "Let's write about rocks."
We took out our pens and began.
*****
Rocks
Rocks
Rocks
That was all Gerald ever talked about. Ok, he was a geology doctoral candidate embroiled in his thesis, but there were other things in life like music, movies, walks on the beach.
For Gawd's sake, I sound like one of those lonely hearts ads.
Yesterday we'd gone for a walk on the beach, despite the wind and cold. The tide had been out. We were alone stomping across the sand.
I found it romantic, although I'd been there hundreds of times, but I'm a native.
He hadn't been there ever, not surprising. He was from the Midwest and had enrolled for his Ph.D.in the nearby university, with its world-famous geology department.
We walked around a huge pile of seaweed, washed up by yesterday's storm.
"Wow," he said staring toward the water. The waves crashed against the rocks that would be hidden once the tide came in.
She waited for him to something about how romantic, how powerful, how beautiful.
"Look at those rocks," He dropped her hand, took out his camera and strode toward the rocks.
*****
My friend read hers first. It was about a rocky beach on a windy day and a couple.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment