Julia's Free Write
He hadn’t had a peaceful night at all. Tossing and turning, mind whiling, wondering what the consequences of yesterday’s standoff would be.
Therefore, although he hadn’t heard anything (actually he had, but had attributed the small thumps to a dream) he wasn’t surprised upon arising and going downstairs to find things laying on the rug.
Blood red rug, I might add.
He called his police friend, leaving everything in place then made coffee and tried not to think what it all meant.
His friend – not in uniform – duly arrived and both men stood there staring.
Finally, he saw the note laying on the desk.
“I refuse to cook any more for someone so ungrateful!
Your daughter”
Julia has written and taken photos all and loves syncing up with friends. Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/
D-L's Free Write
"A picnic."
"But it's raining," Susan said to her daughter Jasmine.
"We'll have it on the rug."
Jasmine was thrilled with the idea. The cleaning woman had come yesterday and wouldn't be back until Monday.
"It'll be fun, Mom. Potato salad, hot dogs. We can grill them in the fireplace.
Grease dripping, Susan thought.
"Do we have marshmallows? Graham crackers? Hershey bars?"
"No."
Jasmine was 11, a borderline teenager. Susan never knew would it be a doll day, a day she's want her ears pierced or if she'd spend the day lost in her books.
Her cuddly little girl seldom wanted to cuddle. Attempts were followed by a multi-syllable "Mother." Who knew that word could have five syllables?
From a child who used to tell her everything, Susan wondered if Jasmine took mute pills.
"I'll set the rug." Jasmine rummaged in the silverware drawer and put forks, knives and spoons on the rug. "We don't even need a tablecloth."
Susan swallowed comments on germs, built the fire and used the leftover potatoes for the salad.
They ate on the rug, pretending the pounding rain was waves crashing on the shore. Jasmine jabbered about school, clothes, her friends and the new Judy Blume novel as Susan tried to ignore the crumbs on the rug.
D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at:. https://dlnelsonwriter.com
Rick's Free Write
Geoffrey had agreed to watch his nephew, Jack, for a few hours and quickly regretted the decision. The kid fit his name – he was as wired as a Terrier.
He only knew the six-year-old from visits to his sister Sonia’s house, usually family gatherings, and he could mostly ignore him there.
The kid was autistic, which Geoff didn’t really understand, nor had he bothered to research. He was sympathetic, so long as it didn’t affect his own life.
After Sonia dropped Jack off at his apartment in the city center, the kid didn’t say a word.
“Would you like to play a game?”
No response.
“Shall we have some lunch?”
No response.
So Geoff went into the kitchen and started preparing some sandwiches.
After a few minutes, Jack wandered in. Still mute.
“Hey, buddy. How about setting the table?” He handed Jack the knives, spoons and forks, and said, “We’ll eat in the living room on the coffee table.”
Jack disappeared with the cutlery.
Geoff finished up the PB&J sandwiches, the juice, and potato chips, loaded it all onto a tray, and headed for the living room.
The first thing he noticed was the silverware thrown on the rug.
The second thing he noticed was no Jack.
The third thing he noticed was the open front door.
Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com
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