Three writers in two countries, share a prompt every Tuesday morning, write for ten minutes before sharing what they wrote via the internet. They take turns giving a prompt. This week it was Julia's.
Was it a joke she wondered?
When she picked up her mail that day, she had found a single sheet of paper with a photo of some kind of arch? Of a balustrade looking over another arch.
Monochrome although of white and beige, why had it been given to her? By whom? Why?
As her day progressed, she could think of little else. In today’s sinister world was this a picture of some future crime site? But why her?
Her mind went over all the people in her town – and she knew many. She was unable though to think of anyone who might want to harm her or involve her in a crime.
As she drifted off into sleep her mind was still busy trying to solve the mystery.
The next day there was another clue in the letter box. A single sheet of paper with a “meet me here” and an address.
Another day of conjecture of worrying: did she dare go?
Third day, third piece of paper with a date for the next day.
She went – it was the local history museum where her friends had organized a surprise party!
Rick's Free Write
I was lost. I had ducked into an archway to escape the sudden rain, and found myself in a large internal courtyard.
A museum maybe? There were displays of old military uniforms and a sailing ship replica behind glass windows on one wall. A rack to park bicycles. Posters announcing future (and some past) events.
To one side, there was a ramp behind a series of arches. Wide enough for a car.
I started up the ramp. Thought I sensed a faint aroma of horse manure.
One flight, turn, another ramp.
At the top of the next floor, a hallway. More stone arches. A carved wooden railing. In the distance another arch. A stained-glass window.
No indication of museum. Maybe government chambers?
I gazed down over the railing at the ground floor atrium. Others had fled the rain. A dog shook the water off.
They don’t make buildings like this anymore. To last. Solid materials. Not plasterboard and paint.
I made a note of the location. I’d like to come back and learn what this place of refuge might be.
D-L's Free Write
So different. The smell of cars had been replaced by the smell of pine trees. No cars, just bird song. The only traffic was two squirrels racing in the tree branches above.
Her exhaustion was disappearing. Three months of solid work to break the story. The mayor was in jail. Three councilmen had resigned all because of her.
As a city girl, she was used to being on alert. Forests like this was where they found bodies on programs like Midsomer Murders or other mystery programs.
There was a break in the trees. An almost mansion shone in the sun.
A man, too well dressed to be a gardener, was pruning blood red roses. "Well good morning," he said.
They chatted. He invited her in for coffee. "No Starbucks," he said.
She paused. What if he were a murderer? Her desire for coffee and to see the inside was too great.
The long hallway was bathed in light. Arched windows gave even more light. Soft music filled the hall. The tunnel with the blinding light at the end, made her think of people who talked about their near-death experiences.
He didn't kill her. Instead, he made a great cup of coffee.
On the way back to the B&B, she wondered if maybe she should change her life. Peace like this in place of work chaos.
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/
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment