This week's Free Write was from a photo, I took when we were visiting the village of Aosta, Italy. There was no plaque saying who carved it or who the man was.
D-L's Free Write
Millicent, or Millie as her friends called her, sat on the park bench looking at the wooden statue as she ate her egg salad sandwich and drank her tea from her thermos.
She talked to the statue.
"You've aged well."
"What have you done since I left Aosta?"
"I had to leave to start my last year at uni."
"I became a lawyer, married, had three kids, five grandchildren. I'm a widow."
She had fallen in love with the Italian village of Aosta during her junior year abroad decades before.
She'd fallen in love with Marco Siragusa. He had looked so much like the statue, only he was younger.
That was 52 years ago.
At first she'd written daily, then weekly, then monthly then not at all. He'd sent two postcards.
Did Marco still live in the village of his ancestors?
***
At the tourist office a woman told her, "The Artist Guido Conti still works in his atelier."
***
Millie smelled the smell of freshly-cut wood as she approached the door. Inside, sawdust filled the air.
Guido had white long hair fastened in a pony tail. He removed his goggles and mask.
"Yes that was Marco," he told her when she asked.
***
Millie's last stop was where Marco now lived. He didn't recognize her, but he didn't recognize anyone.
D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Two of her books, The Corporate Virgin and 300 Unsung Women are in the process of being published. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com
Julia's Free Write
High in the mountains the forests are deep, dark, but yet welcoming.
He has gone up with one idea in his head, in his spirit: find the perfect tree, the perfect piece of wood for his, perhaps, most important work yet.
Going deeper, he encountered the few animals hiding in the woods, holes in trunks, burrows in the moss, rustles in the brush.
He was able, when he stood still, to even see the odd deer. Overhead, unseen but heard, the eagles soaring over these dense forests.
Out into a mountain prairie, full of sunlight and air, he found what he was looking for.
Down to the valley he let it rest a few days gathering his cuts and planings in his head.
Then one fine fall day he started: days, weeks and eventually a month went by, then he was finished – the wooden replica of his father was done - a statue that would weather well on the tombstone of his father, lost too young.
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's Free Write Wood Man
Macleish had been revving up for this match for a year, ever since his failure in the event last August. He had practiced diligently every morning before work and into the long-light summer evenings after. He knew he was capable, but he didn’t quite understand what held him back from winning in the end.
One day he overheard talk in the pub that a witch had moved into the outskirts of the village. So he decided to pay her a visit, maybe have her tell his fortune.
At the end of their conversation, she offered a bargain. She could cast a spell – for a price, of course – but if he revealed her secret there was a curse.
The match went back and forth. Sometimes Macleish was ahead, sometimes Tavish. But on the last hole at St Andrews Old Course, Macleish holed a 60-foot putt across the green to win.
In the pub after, Macleish let slip his bargain with the witch. But added quickly, “Weren’t the wench. Were me skill.”
As he walked home with the trophy, he leaned against a tree to rest. And as soon as he touched it, Macleish turned to wood himself, flat cap and all.
Rick is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com
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