The stop sign

As my writing pal and I sat in the café, we didn't see anyone (as we call them victim, target or body) walking on the street. We went to Plan B to find the trigger for the next exercise: read a random sentence from a book. It was "All of this was elementary and the most interesting question...?" We were to fill in the blank and write for 10 minutes.

All of this was elementary and the most interesting question was why.

Jack wanted to know why the mayor had refused to put up a stop sign after the public works and deputy mayor had refused.

Frank asked why he had gone to his his car just then. He could have waited for the hot coffee in his thermos instead of abandoning his intersection three minutes early.

Mrs. Miller the fifth grade teach asked why she hadn't paid more attention to Billy.

Alexandria asked why any mother would let an eight-year old go to school by himself. She'd called the child protection agency, but didn't know the outcome.

Darren asked why his friend wasn't in class.

The mayor asked why he hadn't listened about the sign.

Jason asked why he hadn't slowed at the intersection.

Beige Cowboy Boots

My writing pal and I were at La Noisette. A funeral was taking place at the church across the street, when we saw a young woman, dressed as described in the story. We used her as a trigger for the 10 minutes of free write. This is my flash fiction piece.

MOST of the mourners wore dark clothes. As was the local custom, they weren't dressed-up. Sunday-best for these occasions had long ago gone the way of the dodo.

They all turned to stare when Isabelle bounded up the church steps in a white short skirt, beige cowboy boots and a beige suede fringe jacket that would have been more appropriate on the Texas panhandle.

Isabelle knew that would be the reaction of Jacques' friends and neighbors. 

They had never approved of her, thinking she was after his money. His wife had not been dead a month when she started visiting almost daily.

He had not been that well before his wife of 50 years had died, but it was as if he had staved off his own illness to take care of her.

The French don't have a good word for "floozie" but if they did, they would have applied it to Isabelle.

"Disgusting," one woman murmured as Isabelle entered the church. 

Isabelle heard, but smiled. It was not that she was happy that Jacques was gone except for the fact he was now pain free.

She had deliberately selected her cowgirl outfit to honor their love--not of each other but of the American West.

In his last week he'd told her about the Navajo, Genizaro, Apache and Comanche tribes including their customs. He was an expert on cattle raising although he'd grown up in Paris and had never been near a real ranch. The western flora and fauna were more familiar to him than the plants outside his front door.

When he talked, he forgot his pain.

Isabelle knew, even if the others didn't, he would laugh at her costume, and that was worth their censure.

The cabin holiday

This exercise was triggered by the line from a book. "But the water bowls never worked."

But the water bowls never worked. 

And the wood stove? Maybe in olden times women could cook and cook well over a fire. Her? She could undercook or overcook anything.

And what kind of holiday was it anyway when she had to go into the woods to pee or worse and cooking was an almost all day process?

Her husband loved this cabin where he'd spend every summer during his childhood. This was their first trip after two years of marriage. He'd been so excited to show off its wonders.

They had to reach it by God damned canoe, for Christ's sake, their supplies at their feet as they paddled across the icy lake.

Now that was another thing--her choice of feeling dirty or turning blue in the lake.

Sexual fantasies for her holiday? Her fantasy, now, was a hotel with a heated pool, restaurants with stars on their door, churches and museums to explore and maybe a concert.

Her husband's head and shoulders appeared in the kitchen window. "Wonderful news!"

Before she could ask, "We're leaving????" he held up a a fish, one recently dead. "Lunch," he said.

She tried not to cry. "

This was triggered at La Noisette with a woman sitting among several empty coffee cups looking at her mobile phone. Another woman joined her.

Helen checked her mobile. Nothing! While her friends were still there, drinking coffee and complaining about their husbands, she hadn't thought about it at all, a welcome break.

The waiter had not cleared the empty cups.

Aurelie returned from the toilet. Of the three women she met every morning, Aurelie was Helen's favorite.

The four women hadn't started as friends.

About two years ago, Helen had developed the habit of going to the tea room every morning for a coffee and sometimes a croissant.

Marie was usually there, reading The Independent. One morning Helen asked if she'd finished with the paper. They'd talked about the photo of the mayor and how often he managed to get his picture into the paper.

The same with Suzanne, another regular. Soon they never bothered to sit at different tables.

Aurelie was the last to join the group. She was a newcomer to the village. When she was there, they laughed more.

Helen looked at the phone. Still no message from her father at the hospital an ocean away.

Aurelie put her hand on Helen's. "Your mother is in a good hospital with good doctors. What will be, will be."

Funeral memories

The chatter of people in the grocery store and the woman, who was wearing too much rose perfume, standing in front of her in the cashiers line reminded her of her son's funeral and the people muttering their prayers as they passed by his casket before moving onto her.

She didn't remember what they said, only how they would take her hand in both of theirs.

She didn't want any of those memories nor the ones of him playing in the yard too near the street with a ball before she screamed.

The memories came unbidden, anyway.

To Ben

ALAIN

The sun was hot. Alain rested against the wall in front of the mural. He looked at his watch.

It should have been a short walk ending with a cool beer., But Elena kept stopping to take photos. He'd long ago leaned not to point out anything because she'd stop and take endless pictures.

This time she was taking the angel statue.

Why oh why had he ever bought that camera for her?

ELENA

Elena focused on the angel's wings. Her collection for the exhibition was almost done.

Four years ago she would never have thought of taking any photo.

Then Ben, sweet ten-year old Ben, forgot once again to look both ways before crossing the street.

Why Alain thought a camera would lessen her grief, she had no idea. It hadn't.

What the camera had given her was a different focus on the world. She discovered the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Alain still didn't know about the exhibition. She wanted to surprise him. As soon as she added the last few photos, they would print up the programs with the words on the first page in ten point type: To Ben.

Woman in Prayer

Marie-Claude's knees hurt as she knelt in the centuries-old church. She glanced at her watch. Seven and a half minutes to go..."Hail Mary full of . . ." don't let my mind wander "...full of grace..."

A man walked down the aisle . ..  "blessed art thou . . ." He looked like Jean-Paul, her non-dearly departed husband ". . .among women . . ." Where was she? . . . "The Lord is with  . . . "

Damn. She thinks, damn doesn't belong in the middle of her rosary. ". . . Where was she again? Oh yes, ". . .thee. And blessed be the fruit of thy womb . . ." Jesus. Not Jesus as in "blessed be the fruit of thy womb, Jesus" but in Jesus she had a cramp in her leg and it hurt like hell.

She refused to stand and walk on the leg. Her penance for hating Jean-Paul and for hastening his death was to go go church every day and say 15 minutes of rosary.

"Holy Mary, Mother . . ." Damn that leg hurt. Probably Jean-Paul, buried outside the church was cursing her ". . .Mother of God. Pray for us sinners . . ."

Marie-Claude looked at her watch. Time was up. Tomorrow, same time, same place.

She limped from the church.