Rick's Free Write
‘Watch out !’
I pulled my partner toward me, almost losing her balance, avoiding a large splatter of something on the walkway.
Usually when I did such, it was to avoid a pile of dog shit. After all, this was France.
But the splatter was white. Not vomit, though. Paint. A fair amount of paint.
Obviously some workman had gotten careless on the way to or from a job at one of the shops in the strip mall.
I was sympathetic. Been there, spilled that.
I once owned a house with a large, ugly concrete fireplace. Gas flame, fake logs. We hardly ever used it.
The concrete was unpainted, and we were trying to sell the house. The realtor was going to hold an open house on the weekend, and I wanted to paint the fireplace well before so it had time to dry.
It was so long ago I don’t recall the details, but somehow in setting up I dropped the bucket of paint – all over the pristine carpet.
A lot of paint.
I don’t think I’ve ever scrambled so fast to get paper towels, water, whatever, to clean up the splat, then the hair dryer for what seemed hours to restore the uniformity of the carpet fabric.
The fireplace never got painted.
The house sold anyway.
D-L'S Free Write
Jamie shed her suit for her paint-splattered jeans and sweat shirt. She would eat later.
Unfortunately she was late leaving work and then the bus hadn't come. She almost ran home.
All she wanted to do was finish the series of paintings inspired by the paint splattered on the sidewalk. A photo was blown up and hung next to her easel. This would be the 8th in the series. In the first one she created the profile of a hooded woman. The others just flowed.
The phone rang: probably her father offering to pay for a "real" apartment for her not this quarter of a floor of an old warehouse in the South End.
She lived rent-free to occupy the space and keep an eye on it. The arrangement allowed her to save money. Her father wanted her to have a "normal" life. "I didn't pay for your university to live like this," he would say.
She debated not answering, but he'd keep interrupting her work. She pressed the key on her mobile. "Hi Dad, I'm just going into a restaurant to eat with some friends. Talk tomorrow. Love you."
She hung up having bought hours to do what she had wanted to do since waking that morning.
Julia's Free Write
And there it was, as plain as day.
He had come home after a business trip, a very tiring one with not only missed flights, but delays as well in every single stopover.
He hated his job, but as an artist could not yet live from his work, so he slugged along, doing what he had to, to not only survive, but to be able to afford his paints, his brushes, his art canvasses.
After 24 hours of recuperation, he opened the door to his atelier only to find that someone – or more likely, something – had gotten in and wreaked havoc.
Pots upturned, brushes scattered, it was a discouraging sight.
As he contemplated the mess and wondered how to start, or how much he could salvage, he saw a clue: Sherlock Holmes himself appeared in one of the splotches. Could he get help from a blot on the floor?
Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the top stories about the airline industry. He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.
Visit D-L.'s website https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504
Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends. Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/
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